By Sandra Bost
I mowed grass Tuesday with my mother’s lawn mower.
I can not tell you the last time that I mowed a lawn, but my husband and I are work-camping on a local orchard so I offered to mow the back half of the vineyard to help him get ahead. My dad recently sold the lawn mower to the ministry we are working with, and that is how this week’s story came about.
Momma loved to mow. She always said it was her “quiet time.” She loved to sing to the Lord and pray as she made her way back and forth, round and round. She was a tad meticulous. She couldn’t abide the thought of leaving even one blade of grass uncut. She could (and did) spend hours on that zero-turn John Deere before she went Home to be with The Lord.
Daddy bought her the mower shortly after moving to their summer-time RV park. She convinced the owner to let her mow grass for part of their rent, and then went to work to persuade Daddy to buy her the zero turn so that she could help them save money. However, what ensued was nearly 7 years of comedy gold. It was funny, that is, unless you were my daddy or the park owner.
It appears that the lawn mower (also known as the driver) was frequently attracted to muddy ditches and various fixed objects typically found around RV parks. You could bet that whenever the mower was running, it would need to be pulled out of one of the many ditches or holes around the park at least once.
There was also the frequent occurrence of a some type of broken valve, a bent mower deck, a chopped-up hose, or a skinned shin from running into random objects, just to name a few. This doesn’t even include the number of plants and shrubs that would never bloom again. So much for saving rent money. Needless to say, she was a happy hazard behind the steering arms of her green and yellow companion.
If I told you that she called weekly to tell me about how she had to get the park owner to pull her out of a ditch or have Daddy fix a broken something-or-other, it would not be an exageration. It became something that we would joke about. I would just roll my eyes and have a good laugh.with her.
Tuesday, I was about midway through my mowing job when I realized I was on Momma’s infamous lawn mower, mowing for rent, and enjoying myself. It was a very “full-circle” moment. I began to reminisce about some of her grass cutting capers, and it made me smile. As I was nearing the end of my last lap down the driveway, I marveled at the fact that I had not fallen into a single ditch, hit any fixed objects, or caused myself bodily harm. Feeling pretty proud, I made my way back toward our motorhome to park the John Deere. That is when the morning took a turn.
As I was approaching the parking spot, I saw the high grass growing around our porch area and thought, “I could just make a couple of passes to clean that up.” So, I made my way around one time, easy peasy. The second pass proved to be problematic. As I was rounding the front of the rig, the right steering arm jerked, catapulting me forward, positioning the deck of the mower just underneath the RV. Admittedly, I panicked just a little, causing all of the confidence and skill from the previous 2 and a half hour, eventless mowing session to leave my body.
Suddenly, I couldn’t even remember which steering arm to push (or was it pull) and I ended up with the back left tire headed straight toward the water main. Oblivious to the fact that the tire had caught the water filter connected to the faucet, I pushed the steering arms forward, breaking the faucet head clean off of the yard hydrant. It was not until the water came spewing out like Old Faithful that I realized what I had done. I busted out laughing and turned off the water before my pants were completely soaked. I couldn’t help but think about my funny momma.
Later that day, I was telling Daddy about the events of the day. I said, “Momma would have been so proud.” His eyes lit up as he pulled up a video of her laughing. He cued it up and let it play. Through belly laughs, you could hear her say, “I laughed so hard I wet my pants!”
Me, too, Momma! Me, too.
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