On the Farm is a humor column I wrote in the late seventies and early 80’s for a local newspaper, the Fostoria Review-Times. I loved writing, and was home 24/7 with 3 small children so it was an outlet for me. I would write about children, our beginning forays into living in the country, any subject that struck me or that I could attempt to make funny. This is one of my weekly offerings.
Mowing: Satisfying If You Can Get It Done
Nothing gives one a feeling of accomplishment like gazing out over an expanse of freshly-cut grass, particularly if one if the guy t hat cut it.
Your lawn looks so tidy, the smell is so pleasant, and it’s so good to find your “Sea legs” after hours on a lumpy, bumpy riding mower.
I shouldn’t really blame the lumps and bumps on the mower. Since our house is on the edge of a ridge, the hills alone are uncomfortable to negotiate; add two (oops, make that three) active dogs who love to investigate underground smells and the result is our lumpy, bumpy, humpy, dumpy lawn.
Mowing our grass is no easy trick as most of our four acres is lawn. I like to start on the flatlands in case I haven’t time to finish. Usually Jim will take over, mastering the tricky hills and orchard (our own personal obstacle course).
It never fails that I run out of gas at the farthest point from the garage where the extra gasoline is kept. This means trudging all the way to the garage for the gas can, lugging the heavy thing across hill and dale, remembering the funnel, going back for it, pouring and spilling the gas and making another journey to return gas and paraphernalia before continuing with my cutting job.
Each week the path is strewn with sticks, stones, toys or wandering kids, necessitating a stop, disconnection of mower blades, hopping off and removing debris, (In case of children a few stern words and a dirty look is often sufficient.)
Of course these are the same children who were told hours before to go around the yard and gather up all sticks, stones, bricks and bones. And naturally their guileless faces show surprise when you confront them. An indignant, “I did!” or an innocent “Who, me?” are the most common replies.
I don’t believe there is another lawn in the state of Ohio which has the obstacles we do. Bushes, trees, rocks, fence posts, a stump, gas meter, chuck holes, old miscellaneous pipes, three different garden plots, a swing set, two piles of lumber and an old heavy iron strip sticking out of the ground. As time goes by, these obstacles will disappear, but do you know how hard it is to find time to do extra jobs when grass cutting takes the better part of a day?
The hills alone should have dissuaded us from buying the farm, but truly they were part of the charm and attractiveness of the property. You must pick your way very carefully, choosing the steeper grades for a down hill run and the gentler slopes to ride uphill. I have horrible visions of myself sliding downhill, picking up speed until the whole mower turns over with me underneath (very unlikely, but then, most of my visions are!).
I have learned that if I have problems of any kind with the mowing that they’re “my problems” as they invariably occur when Jim is away. If the tractor stalls it’s up to me to figure out whether it needs gas or whether the grass being cut is so thick the blades can’t keep up with the speed of the tractor. Once I picked up about five miles of wire around the shaft of the blades (both sides). I was certain it would be impossible to extract the debris without turning it over. Being alone, this was quite hopeless, but I worked, maneuvering it around as it stood. After about an hour, I was successful in removing the wire (all by myself!).
To further complicate our complement of problems, the mower, like most machines, has a “personality” f its own. Whenever we pass over a good bump, the lever engaging the cutting blades to the engine bounces off, and usually I’ll mow away ignorant of the fact. And lately old Nellibelle needs to be pumped up every time she is taken out. Quite obviously something is wrong with the left front tire, but until Mr. Fixit gets around to it, the old girl insists on fresh air.
I have suggested to my husband that we let the grass grow really high, then hire somebody to come cut and bale it for the horses. No good. I’ve also suggested a bigger garden, more trees, fencing in more for pasture or getting sheep; nothing cuts any ice, so here I am still stuck with the dangerous muscle-building, exhausting job that makes me feel good when it’s finished (in more ways than one!).
Nothing gives one a feeling of accomplishment like gazing out over an expanse of freshly-cut grass, particularly if one if the guy t hat cut it.
Your lawn looks so tidy, the smell is so pleasant, and it’s so good to find your “Sea legs” after hours on a lumpy, bumpy riding mower.
I shouldn’t really blame the lumps and bumps on the mower. Since our house is on the edge of a ridge, the hills alone are uncomfortable to negotiate; add two (oops, make that three) active dogs who love to investigate underground smells and the result is our lumpy, bumpy, humpy, dumpy lawn.
Mowing our grass is no easy trick as most of our four acres is lawn. I like to start on the flatlands in case I haven’t time to finish. Usually Jim will take over, mastering the tricky hills and orchard (our own personal obstacle course).
It never fails that I run out of gas at the farthest point from the garage where the extra gasoline is kept. This means trudging all the way to the garage for the gas can, lugging the heavy thing across hill and dale, remembering the funnel, going back for it, pouring and spilling the gas and making another journey to return gas and paraphernalia before continuing with my cutting job.
Each week the path is strewn with sticks, stones, toys or wandering kids, necessitating a stop, disconnection of mower blades, hopping off and removing debris, (In case of children a few stern words and a dirty look is often sufficient.)
Of course these are the same children who were told hours before to go around the yard and gather up all sticks, stones, bricks and bones. And naturally their guileless faces show surprise when you confront them. An indignant, “I did!” or an innocent “Who, me?” are the most common replies.
I don’t believe there is another lawn in the state of Ohio which has the obstacles we do. Bushes, trees, rocks, fence posts, a stump, gas meter, chuck holes, old miscellaneous pipes, three different garden plots, a swing set, two piles of lumber and an old heavy iron strip sticking out of the ground. As time goes by, these obstacles will disappear, but do you know how hard it is to find time to do extra jobs when grass cutting takes the better part of a day?
The hills alone should have dissuaded us from buying the farm, but truly they were part of the charm and attractiveness of the property. You must pick your way very carefully, choosing the steeper grades for a down hill run and the gentler slopes to ride uphill. I have horrible visions of myself sliding downhill, picking up speed until the whole mower turns over with me underneath (very unlikely, but then, most of my visions are!).
I have learned that if I have problems of any kind with the mowing that they’re “my problems” as they invariably occur when Jim is away. If the tractor stalls it’s up to me to figure out whether it needs gas or whether the grass being cut is so thick the blades can’t keep up with the speed of the tractor. Once I picked up about five miles of wire around the shaft of the blades (both sides). I was certain it would be impossible to extract the debris without turning it over. Being alone, this was quite hopeless, but I worked, maneuvering it around as it stood. After about an hour, I was successful in removing the wire (all by myself!).
To further complicate our complement of problems, the mower, like most machines, has a “personality” f its own. Whenever we pass over a good bump, the lever engaging the cutting blades to the engine bounces off, and usually I’ll mow away ignorant of the fact. And lately old Nellibelle needs to be pumped up every time she is taken out. Quite obviously something is wrong with the left front tire, but until Mr. Fixit gets around to it, the old girl insists on fresh air.
I have suggested to my husband that we let the grass grow really high, then hire somebody to come cut and bale it for the horses. No good. I’ve also suggested a bigger garden, more trees, fencing in more for pasture or getting sheep; nothing cuts any ice, so here I am still stuck with the dangerous muscle-building, exhausting job that makes me feel good when it’s finished (in more ways than one!).
