I came home from work last Monday evening, changed clothes, started up the mower, and mowed the front yard. I got hot and stopped until I cooled off, which happened this Saturday morning. I try to take care of my lawn and not just when I get those letters the city send out when the neighbors complain. (I know who you are and I know what you did.) Mowing, as you may recall, is my last chance to get into heaven. I’ve given up on faith and I’ve given up on works, so a good lawn is the only path left.
This time of year, though, keeping your lawn up can be dangerous. When you mow out in the heat, you can get overheated before you know it. This can have dire consequences. If the city can get on your case for having a pile of brush, what are they going to do for having an unburied body on the front lawn? And it’s not like your kids are going to take care of it either. Your wife would be stuck with the job. That is if you are not like Mark Sanford, Governor of the great state of South Carolina.
It is my opinion that every man should live his life in such a way so that his wife would give CPR to him if he fell of heat prostration while mowing. I am thinking that breathing life into her husband’s hot, sweaty body might not be a high priority with her right now. But then perhaps if the dear governor had been spending more time on his own lawn (wink-wink, nod-nod) he wouldn’t have strayed off on the Appalachian Trail, as it were.
Having mentioned that, I’ve got to wonder how his Argentine girlfriend liked being referred to as the Appalachian Trail. It’s curvy and beautiful from a distance, but up close it’s full of bugs and a lot of guys have hiked it before you. (Wink-wink, nod-nod.) It brings me to mind of the wealthy and powerful Eliot Spitzer, who paid over four-thousand dollars for what our boys in khaki could get for a pair of nylons and a couple of Hershey bars back during WWII.
I’ve shared with you before the remarks from the table at Rotary when that story was broken, but they are too precious not to share again.