An English In Kentucky


















March 12th  2011    Tim Candler

    Mowing machines sit there with flat tires and cold engines.  Maybe one of them will start.  Or maybe I'll have to wait for parts.  Either way it is almost time to drag them out, dust them down and fondle them.

    By about September mowing becomes an adventure.  New horizons are grasped, mowing territory expanded, and next year given promises that are not kept. 

     Last September's promises were outrageous.  They included paths and oceans of ground and park-like vistas that consumed imagination without ever touching the reality of  twenty hours a week spent sitting on a mower.  Not to mention the forty thousand gallons of gasoline such a dream could devour.

    One day perhaps there will be no more than a handkerchief to mow, which I will accomplish with nail scissors.  

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