Liz’s Rants – Green, green grass of home

My dad and I stood in the garden section of Home Depot a few days ago, evaluating the power tools. I needed a lawn mower in quick order. And I needed one with power. No way was I going to borrow my brother’s grass cutter for another season.

OK, so I didn’t use it for the whole season last year – just once. Which was more than enough for this chick.

I must first take offense that he didn’t offer to mow my yard for me. He’s a healthy 30-something, not to mention my younger brother. Nevertheless the offer never came. Instead I met him at his house a few blocks away to load the mower into my trunk.

His lawn  mower directives were without complication. “The rollers have to be facing toward you. Otherwise the blades don’t turn.”

In other words, there was no five-foot rip-your-arm-out-of-its-socket pull-to-start cord. No on/off button. Just a cylindrical set of blades powered solely by the muscle behind the handle. Hadn’t this type of lawnmower gone out with the Stone Age? I was going to be mowing said yard with a giant pair of scissors on wheels.It was my worst lawnmare come true. I didn’t have much of a choice, though. The yard needed to be mowed desparately and the grass cutting fairies were nowhere to be found.

I heard something that resembled a snicker coming from Colton as I rolled “Michael’s Scissorhands” onto the grass.

To my amazement, the blades expertly sheared through the first few feet of grass. I was momentarily tempted to sing “nah, nah, nah, nah, nah” to him. But the amazement was short-lived as I broke into an all-out sweat about 10 square-feet into the project. With each step I took, the more difficult Michael’s Scissorhands became to maneuver.

Maybe it would have been easier if the yard was flat. It was not. Moreover, it was full of little holes, just big enough to trap the wheel and stop the Fred Flinstone mower with every step. I struggled and tugged and pushed and pulled, wondering how something so seemingly simply was turning into a thorn in my side.

About that time, a car drove by. I sensed the driver slowing down to get a look at the spectacle taking place on my grass. I surmised that the quickest way to save face was to stop what I was doing and pretend I doing just about anything besides what I was actually doing.

My plan seemed to work. The car appeared to resume normal neighborhood speed, and I went back to the business of, uh, mowing. And I use that term loosely.

A few minutes later, I looked up to see a young man approaching on foot, spotting his grin from about 30 feet. Again, I stopped fighting with Scissorblades.

“That’s some old school,” he remarked (thank you, Mr. Smartypants – like I don’t know this).

“It’s my brothers. He’s saving the planet.”

It was the only response I had. There was no way to save face. No way to even appear to save face. I’d like to point out, no offer of help came from this guy, either. “Thanks for nothing,” I wanted to scream.

I found myself staring at the Episcopal church across the street. Perhaps I could pray to Saint Michael, the church’s namesake. As the patron saint of chivalry in medieval times, my rescue would be imminent.

Until I realized that in modern day Christianity, ol’ St. Michael is considered a warrior – which likely meant suck it up and keep mowing. At which point I had to wonder if Michael the brother and Michael the Saint had conspired against me via Michael’s Scissorbaldes, the lawn mower.

Which was about the time the phone rang, ushering in a true saved by the bell moment. It was my oldest son, who wanted to come visit for the night.

“Of course you can come over,” I said with sweetness born of sheer desperation. “On one condition…”

Alas it appeared St. Michael had heard my pleas after all. And my oldest son, whose middle name happens to be Michael as well, would forever be heralded, at least by his mother, as patron saint of lawn mowing. It had been a sign, no doubt about it.

Which is why I found myself in Home Depot with my dad. I trust it goes without saying that my brother – and his scissor-blades – have been fired.