My non-existent wife Sheila and I own a lot of acreages thanks to the dowry her parents offered when we were married. We don’t keep this vast amount of land up as much as we should, as with my allergies mowing the lawn isn’t all that fun—even with a mask on. But the other night, as Sheila and I were playing a spirited game of Milton Bradley’s Mr. Bucket in the rec room, she turned to me and said “You really ought to mow the land. The grass has grown to neigh a foot high over this fortnight.”
She was right, the land was looking rough and though I dreaded it, it would be far more economical for me to ride the old John Deer out there and mow it down myself instead of hiring someone. So on a bright, hot, humid Summer morning—I loaded up the John Deer in the back of the trailer and off I went to our acreage. I knew this would be an all morning affair at the least, so I downloaded a book on tape to enjoy while I mowed. My book of chose that morning was “The Synthesized Voice of Siri Reads Agatha Christie’s The Murder on The Links.”
I put my earphones on, fired up the John Deer, and began mowing. It was strangely relaxing, Just me plowing my way through a foot tall, grassy plane. When I realized that there was enough depth in this field that I was leaving a notable trail behind me, I began to wonder if I should try to make some kind of crop circle to confuse the locals and get us on the TV. But this was no time for shenanigans, this was time to get the land mowed and get back home before my nose declared mutiny on me.
So right on I went, working my way around the hills and valleys, the pond, the trees, and the other sights on this set of land that is ours. All while getting lost in the emotionless voice of Siri reading a mystery to me. I got so into the zone that I went into that sort of auto-pilot mode you can go in while driving. That feeling when you suddenly arrive home, but you don’t recall how you got there, yet you made it safely as a sound driver would.
While going into auto-pilot I thought of so many things we could do the land. Camp out on it, shoot a video for the song “Wildfire,” set a trailer on it for me when Shiela divorces me. As my mind meandered around various thoughts, I lost track of what I was mowing. I had finished all the property that belonged to us, but I went right on through the woods—where there was grass that needed mowing—and next thing I knew I was in the middle of a soapbox derby.
I was going down a hill, flying past the kiddies, my blade scraping and sparking the pavement as I went. This was when I went out of autopilot and realized what was going on. I picked up the blade and hoped I hadn’t damaged it too badly. At the first left, I could take, I took it and got out of the way of the soapbox racers—thankfully the finish line was still a good bit away from where I left the track.
Not too long after I took the turn did I hear the sound of sirens wailing in the distance. “How nice,” I thought, “they have cops looking after the kiddies to make sure they’re safe while they race. I like that.” Being on a lawn mower, I had no idea what was going on behind me, I was trying to get back to the land and go home. Yet I noticed that those sirens in the distance were getting louder. And Louder. And louder. And. Louder.
Next thing I knew I had two cop cars flanking my sides as I was so close to getting back to my acreage. They pulled me over and asked if I was drunk and trying to pull a George Jones. I assured them that I wasn’t and that I got lost trying to mow the stretch of land I have. They were good-humored about it after they frisked me and gave me a spanking. I did get home eventually, and Sheila seemed happy that it looked like I had put in a hard day’s work on the land. See you next week.