One Man's Mundane....

As an around-the-house-fix-it-guy, I am about as handy as Stephen Hawking. I am okay at changing light bulbs and cleaning up hairballs, but really that is about it. Also, I am carrying an unnecessary extra twenty pounds and get winded going to the mailbox. Living on Diet Coke, cigars, and whiskey may or may not play a role. I haven’t decided. But surely not. And although the extent of my physical workouts consists of dodging Junebugs on my porch at night and carrying a handle of Evan Williams from the Jeep to the kitchen once a week, I like physical activity. I appreciate a good sweat. One of my enjoyable things is cutting the grass—sniff-sniff, I mean tending the lawn. Like a lot of guys, I’ll bitch about it all week leading up to the actual task. But I enjoy it. My lot is roughly one third of an acre. But it is a corner lot with a fair incline and can be taxing. Especially for a guy like me. The job, all-told, takes about an hour and a half. Aside from navigating the steeper parts of the yard, keeping an eye out for spiders and snakes is the only real concern. They like to take refuge in the low-lying limbs of my obnoxious pine trees. Passing beneath those limbs gives me the fucking willies every time. Once about three summers ago, I bent low and made two passes beneath a nasty old Pine on the west side of the house. On my third pass, I stood up a little too early, paused, and noticed that I was eye to eye with a four foot black snake stretched the length of a slender limb. I think my muffled scream went something like, “OhmyJesusmotherfuckingchrist!” I tend to get religion during moments of stress. But no harm, no foul. I went inside, changed my shorts, and finished the job.

But truly, I think part of what I like about cutting the yard is the silly sense of accomplishment that comes with it. It is a small thing really, but for a sedentary guy, it is something. Invariably, the yard looks better once I am done. The physical workout makes me feel alive. My shirt sticking to me, the dust and dirt caked around my ankles and in my nostrils, the sweat running in my eyes and down my back—the all of it—reminds me that I am alive.

It is often the small pleasures in life, eh?

Often, after I’ve replaced the old crippled mower to its holding pattern, I walk down to the street, look up and admire my handy work. With its freshly cut yard, even my ramshackle house looks good. I nod my head in the affirmative. I walk up the driveway, go to the kitchen, open a teeth-achingly cold beer, and drink half of it at once. I stand at the kitchen window looking out on the new yard. The birds have, by now, converged, running and swooping, foraging for an easy-access meal.

It is a sight I appreciate for reasons not entirely understood.

I bet Stephen Hawking would appreciate it too.