Friday, April 5, 2013

Woody Perennials

    I'd like to think the neat pile of  droppings could be traced to something polite with feathers, not to something with beady eyes, four feet, hairless tail and an ancestral memory of carrying the cross of  the Black Death to one half the human population of Medieval Europe.  As I tiptoed around,  I looked on the bright side. That population collapse in the fourteenth century resulted in an increase in the price of labor, or labour, which ushered in a more equitable life for those like me who belong to the thoroughly disgruntled laboring class.  And if yesterday was a recipe, I'd call it seven damp hours, two trips to town, two band aids for cracked thumbs and one over-stretched vocal chord. All of them damned good reasons to not answer the telephone.


   Worst of all was a battle of wills against the new fangled tubeless tire which had naturally lost its capacity to seal.  Nor is the insertion of inner tube an easy thing for an elegant wrist attached to a mind that thoroughly distrusts the motivation behind anything made in China.  Then there was the pathetic cough associated with drained battery syndrome, which I tried to explain was something that we all just had to live with.  These preludes to spark plug removal, were wasted effort, so I threatened a cold and lengthy spray of ether up the carburetor.  But more likely when waking a dormant mowing machine the better place to start is with an understanding of the internal combustion engine that includes the knowledge it requires at least some gasoline in its tank before it can concentrate. And if I have any advice for the younger generation it would be to enjoy an ability to remember the obvious while you still can.

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