Since 1992
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By Rebecca Dorr
Last weekend, in downtown Camden, I saw a flier posted in a chic store advertising a four-month group for “women who run with the wolves.” I decided today that I am going to start a group called “women who mow with lawn tractors.”
I just mowed a lawn, all three acres through briar and woods, for the first time in 10 years. It’s not that I was incapable or ever perceived this as a man’s job; I managed many home projects and physical chores for years. I am more competent with a power drill than with a sewing machine. But when I was married (and lived with two teenagers), I realized it was okay to just let my husband and children take care of some things, especially lawnmowing and snow-blowing. Not the laundry. My husband once hung the dirty laundry and washed the clean laundry.
I did not really want to be divorced at nearly 50 years old, living in another family’s home, starting new gardens and new neighbors. Unlike some educated, fairly upper middle class women such as Sandra Tsing Loh (who writes for The Atlantic), I did not desire another man or freedom from the confines of family. I did not have any romantic ideas about single living or single parenting. I do have to say however that this new life is turning out to be quite an adventure.
Today, I started the wide Toro lawn tractor without incident (using the directions I had written myself per homeowner John’s detailed instructions ). I put my foot on the brake, pulled out the choke, turned the key all the way and then back into reverse mode, pushed in the choke, and VROOMed forward from the garage without taking out the garage door. I had even remembered to take down the badminton net and roll up the hose. I was feeling completely delighted with myself as I started tootling around the yard, until I realized I had not moved branches or large rocks (where did those came from?) or investigated obstacles under the pine needles.
So first, the fir boughs thrashed me in the face leaving quite a scratch along my cheek. Fortunately, I had put on safety glasses (per John’s instructions), and did not poke out my eyeball. Having concussed myself in a bicycle accident two weeks after my divorce, I have been quite happy this past month to be able to see straight again.
It was time to gather my wits about me. I did not want to lose any body parts at all while mowing the lawn, or even worse, wreck the family lawn tractor (although that may have been less expensive than my concussion). I slowed down a bit, and quickly remembered one should not mow down a steep hill, but rather across it. I started thinking about all of the good metaphors and affirmations for life I was learning this morning: write directions, take it slow, stop and taste the blackberries, try new things, sometimes you have to back up.
And suddenly I was no longer tootling. I was stuck. It seems one of the mower deck wheels had jammed into a small soft moss-covered stump. I tried powering forward. I tried giving lots of gas and reversing. The back right tire was raised just off the ground enough so that I had no traction. I turned the engine off and dismounted the tractor and tried to give a little push from the front. I went around the back of the tractor and shoved from behind. This tractor was not budging.
My lower back just above my pelvis, still tender from recent accident injuries, started to seize. I could hear the male neighbor next door chain-sawing. I gave myself the affirmation of the moment: “I do not need a man. I can do this alone. Better to keel over than ask him for help.”
I looked down and realized I was standing in poison ivy. My realization of the moment: “Terrific, I am going into paralysis in poison ivy.” Fortunately the tractor was so jammed, it would not roll back over me. As i started to sink to the ground, I saw a little latch on the tractor’s rear end. There was a picture with an arrow demonstrating a person pushing the tractor with the latch pulled out. I pulled the thing and fell forward against the mower.
It lurched forward and stopped like a good horse for me to roll myself back on. Miraculously, unlike the thirty year old John Deere at my former home, this tractor started right back up again. I felt deeply loved by the worlds mechanical forces for the first time in my life.
Two hours of mowing taught me I don’t want a lawn when I eventually buy my own home. I learned that I can keep going if at least half of my body still works. I learned to shower after mowing instead of before. I learned why men often won’t ask for help no matter what the consequences. Or, no, I am still not sure why, but know I can be just as stubborn and prideful. Perhaps it is the influence of peri-menopause hormonal changes. Whatever the cause, if I can mow, I am ready to do anything . I think I will wait for my poison ivy rash to clear before I go run with the wolves.
