I sat beneath a spreading canopy of an ornamental tree at my favorite cafe, waiting for my celebratory lunch. It was my reward for a spontaneous decision I wished I hadn’t made.
Early in the late August morning coolness, I had already walked my usual mile in our suburban neighborhood. The humidity neutralized the refreshing temperature.
The forecast showed heavy rain off and on for the next three days. As I walked, I weighed my options. Should I mow our yard or not? The grass was already high, and the rain would only allow it to grow thicker and higher.
Our granddaughter, who usually mows for us, was in school. Plus, I needed more time to request the on-call lawn service, so I was the only option. The truth is that I loved to mow the yard. I enjoy the exercise and the challenge of mowing the grass in different directions each time, creating various patterns in the yard.
Back home, I confidently announced my decision to my wife.
“Are you sure?” she wisely asked with clear doubt and a contorted look. She knew the consequences that I ignored.
I gassed up the mower and charged onto the lawn as my wife left for the morning. It was 68 degrees Fahrenheit when I started and 86 degrees when I finished.
The first 20 minutes went well. I made several passes around the perimeter of our third of an acre and got halfway through the front yard when the reality of why others mow our lawn kicked in.
I’m allergic to grass. Despite my nose running like a baby’s, I followed my male ego’s insistence. I soldiered on as best I could while my wife’s question rattled in my numbed brain. Soon, however, the physical reactions forced this stubborn septuagenarian to take an extra-long break. I needed to rest and hydrate. Plus, I used half a box of facial tissues.
Nevertheless, I pressed on as the temperature spiked and the humidity intensified. With the front yard finished, I retreated to the garage’s shelter to repeat my previous routine: sit, drink, towel away the sweat, and repeatedly blow my nose.
In short, I was miserable and exhausted but still determined to finish the job. My stubborn male ego spurred my misguided desire to do so. Fortunately, with a few more rounds, I completed the mowing. I took another break before cleaning up the mower and blowing off the driveway, sidewalk, and patio. What should have taken an hour turned into two.
I was ecstatic to be finished despite my stupidity. I cleaned up and basked in the comfort of air conditioning.
As the late morning transitioned into the afternoon, I headed to the downtown cafe I loved. I treated myself to my favorite lunchtime dish: a gluten-free waffle with fresh fruit and sweet tea in the dappled shade of that cityscape tree. The delicious food vindicated my miserable morning. At least, that’s what I rationalized.
I spent the afternoon relaxing in a lounge chair in the shade of the back porch. I promptly fell asleep despite the heat, which now had reached 96 degrees. An hour later, I awoke to a new reality. Despite the ongoing drought, the National Weather Service posted a flood watch for northern Virginia. Hopefully, rain was on the way.
The hazy, clear blue sky filled with high cirrus clouds. Soon, a brisk wind sailed lower, more menacing cumulous clouds overhead.
A blessed, gentle rain began by early evening but quickly became a downpour. Lightning flashed in every direction, with some strikes too close for comfort. Ear-splitting booms instantly followed bright bolts.
The evening cooled once the storm front passed, and I settled in for a good night’s sleep, exhausted but happy for the rain and the manicured yard. I confessed my evident male ego stubbornness to my compassionate wife, laughed at my foolishness, and fell into a contented, deep sleep.
In his iconic 1909 craft book “Write It Right,” Ambrose Bierce stated that “good writing” is “clear thinking made visible.” My actions proved that muddled reasoning is just as evident.
© Bruce Stambaugh 2024
Roadkill Crossing 
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