There's something about the sound of a lawnmower that always brings me back to Ohio. Nothing marked the end of the harsh winter season like the sound of husbands everywhere, deep in suburbia getting their John Deer, riding mowers out of the garage. It's a sign, that school will be over soon...and freedom isn't just something you read about in a history book.
Plant life everywhere had a chance to breathe after being pummelled by the snow and frost. For a moment it grew wildly, like the hair of a punk kid in 7th grade before his mother got pissed and made him cut it off.
Then, all of the dads, and some moms of course, got out and tended to their patchy winter lawns. Letting that wild growth know who paid its mortgage. Cutting and chopping, using those mowers like sandpaper, to scrub the winter away and force Spring to show itself.
Today, outside my very adult room in California ,someone is mowing their lawn. The roar of the machine rips through the steady breeze and cawing crows. For some reason, there is a murder of them outside on our lawn.
The birds are chirping and the sun is out. It's some fairy tale bullshit. Still, I can't place my finger on why I'm not content. All signs point to happy, but my brain insists on existing in the gray. My favorite weather is when its slightly overcast, threatening to rain. It mimics the activity inside my head.
I imagine that my friends who are "terminally delightful" have this kind of weather on the brain. A slight breeze accompanies the crisp Spring air...and February never feels like winter. The sun is cool, but hot, and if you wait long enough you might be able to run out for lunch without your jacket...because in the afternoon the temperature spikes. Everyone is happy then.
Brains that operate in this headspace, this terminal summertime is what everyone longs for right? Total peace. Mindfulness, the abstract concept of a job well done...those emotions, thoughts and feelings have never entered my brain. Never is a strong word, but it's the truth. Not fact, but the truth.
It's a constant search...for more...wanting for that rain to release from the clouds that hold it hostage...and fall already. Maybe then there will be relief.
The murder of crows won't leave the lawn. As they parade around with their black feathers flaring, no doubt, baking in the delightful sun I wonder if I should just abandon my laptop and go out there to lay with them. For some reason their reputation comforts me. Bad omens need to stick together.
Maybe its homesickness or the fact that my life is very different from what I had imagined, but still...the sounds of summer drone on. February doesn't really exist in California...not in the weather at least.
My dad pushes that lawnmower around the yard as if he were a king building a moat. The precision is unbridled. He's highly disorganized, but the one thing he concentrates on is those lines in the grass.
I mowed the lawn once, it turned out like a Picasso painting. Jagged, uneven and a total mess to people who looked at it for too long. Needless to say, I was never asked to mow the lawn again.
For some, this whole life thing is pretty heavy, and I count myself among the unlucky few who think too much...but any time I'm feeling less than delightful, I can listen for the sound of that lawnmower...and remember that home is just a phone call away.