The Lawn Mower

It was a perfect summer Sunday afternoon as I drove to Ohio. I was listening to a book on tape which made the miles rapidly click off. Every book I listen to seems to get especially interesting just about the time I get to the farm, regardless, I always turn it off about a half-mile away. I enjoy soaking in the scene. The familiar white buildings stand out across the green fields. I know that I won’t always be able to call them our family’s farm, so I re-etch the scene in my mind each time. Most of our neighbors painted their barns red, but dad liked his painted white. The house is white, the barn is white, the corn-crib is white, the old chicken coop is white, and the other buildings that have been torn down, were white. I guess that reflected his independent spirit. It dawned on me as I glanced around the neighborhood that all of the red barns had long ago fallen down. Maybe dad knew something about white.

As I turned down the road to go the last quarter mile, I wondered what the lawn would look like. No one has ever watered or fertilized it, but because of the rich Ohio soil it grows like a corn-fed pig. I hoped my brother had mowed it the last time he was here. It’s sort of a competition we have about the lawn. We always suspect the other guy left without mowing. Sometimes we even check by telephone.

After dad retired from active farming and sold off the land, except for the buildings and a large lawn, mowing it was his only contact with the soil he loved. Mom and dad each had their own riding lawn mower. They were Dixons, and according to dad, every other brand was inferior. When he was ill and I mowed the lawn, every time I came back in the house after mowing, he said, “Good lawn mower, isn’t it?” For many years, they mowed together, one starting on the west side and the other on the east side, meeting in the middle. Mom still has one of the Dixons and still mows in between our visits even though we have suggested that she stop mowing. As you can imagine, we are concerned that she will get into trouble out there, or even get injured in some way. At the same time I protest, I realize that she also needs that contact with the earth that she has enjoyed her whole life on the farm. I am also sure that she can visualize dad buzzing around the other side of the lawn on his mower, reviving precious memories. It is hard to take these types of pleasures away from her, even at the risk of serious injury.

As I pulled into the driveway, I noticed that the grass was quite long this time. That signaled that something was wrong. As I went around to my parking spot I saw what the problem was. She had started mowing in the back yard, but had an obvious problem. One side of the mower was so low that it scalped the grass at ground level. There was an ugly streak snaking around the back yard. She had put the mower away but I suspected what the problem was. The right rear tire of the Dixon had been slowly losing air dropping that side too low. We just hadn’t gotten around to fixing it yet.

After greeting mom, I said, “I see the lawn mower tire is low again. It looks like you had some trouble.”

“Yes, I think it is,” she replied. She tried to act casual about it, but the look she had on her face reminded me of the look I had many times as a kid when she or dad had suspected me of doing something wrong. I quickly changed the subject, but when it was convenient, I went out to the shed to look at the mower.

I could hardly believe my eyes. The right rear tire was not only flat, but it was nearly completely off the rim. I nearly cried, not about the mower, but I realized at that moment the progression of her disease. My mother of a few years ago would have noticed the problem immediately and possibly would have taken the wheel off to get it fixed.

When I went back into the house, I simply said, “Flat tire, I’ll get it fixed in the morning.” “Okay,” she said, but she still had that look on her face.

The next morning, I got the tire fixed and mowed the lawn. Within a couple of weeks the scalped grass grew back and life went on.