And So It Begins

And just like that, the weather turned warm, the faeries beneath the earth’s crust pushed their backs against the grass and weeds, the greenery sprung up, the winged insects flew sorties off the decks of their craft, the world became filled with song, and here it is again, time to cut the grass.

I couldn’t have asked for a better day to start this half-a-year activity. Seventy-two degrees, breezy, titanium-white clouds courtesy of Bob Ross, a stare-worthy sky of most regal blue. The morning wasn’t even halfway over when I looked outside my window at work and decided that today would be the day.

Once home, I prepared the mower and set to working. I only mowed half of what I normally do, and did so at a leisurely pace. The neighbor’s cows were gathered at the north fence and watched me in between washing each others’ faces with half-closed eyes, the bees circling among their stilt legs in search of the flowering weeds. The lone ewe stared at me, hunkered down like a wolf. She looked hostile, if sheep may be said to look hostile, but I suspect she was just confused. What kind of noisy, foul-smelling creature does that old man have a-holt of, and why is he pushing it around like that? Seems ravenous. I hope they’re not going to spoil every evening’s peace like this…

After my shower, I forgot to comb my hair, which is overdue for a trimming, thinning pate and all. I glanced in the mirror because my wife was staring at me with that carefully polite and settled look she gets sometimes. When I saw my reflection, I started laughing. Not because of how I looked, but because it dredged up an unexpected memory from long ago. My grandmother used to cut off any foolishness on my part with a stern “Now, don’t you come in here actin’ like the Wild Man of Borneo!” I had no idea at the time who this storied wild man was, but the phrase always made me bray like a delighted donkey. Which didn’t help my grandmother’s mood. Especially when I was a teenager with shoulder-length hair.

Right now, the sun is down and there’s still just a mist of light in the west. The spring frogs are peeping from the wet grassy basin down in the holler where the stock pond provides cool drinks for the plodding cows. Dixee the dog is attempting to con me out of a biscuit. My wife is reading. The evening is setting down on us like a light quilt. The day is done.

And half the grass is cut. So it begins…

~ S.K. Orr