I mowed my lawn today, and I hate rocks. Oh, by the way: I do NOT own a riding lawn mower, and my breath is never caught up while cursing. I DO have dogs named Snoopy and Prisom, and another named Hershey (who didn’t make it into this edition, sorry to say) and they are all both fat and happy.

It isn’t often that I come across a story so adamantly biographical in nature, but this is one. I did not get attacked by the rocks in the back yard today, thank God, but I did do battle with them. I’m not certain that I won, but I did survive.

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I turned the key and pulled the choke. “Start, you fu…” I said.

My words were interrupted by the kick I launched at my mower, but the thought persisted and continued: “…MONSTER!”

With my fuzzed brain fuming, I stomped out the backyard gate and around the front. In the shed, I moved around the random crap of ages and unearthed my old push mower. I haven’t used it since I bought the Murray and I didn’t want to use it now, but you’ll be home soon and you asked me to mow the backyard. I could hear what you’ll say if I don’t get it done. Jerrod, I don’t know why you even say you’re going to do things. But there are other factors, you know? No excuses here. Only factors.

It went well until I hit the first rock. Cthonk! The rock bashed against the inside of the deck and my pants came very close to being wet. I cursed, turned the mower off, and climbed off the seat. Underneath, behind the muck and shadows, I saw no rock. But there was one right next to my left hand when I began to sit back up. When I pushed myself up on my haunches, I saw another one. As I stood, two more appear. I turned away from those and saw a herd of them grazing their way across my yard.

“Aw, hell,” I said, not without resignation. (more…)