Sunday, April 28, 2013

Life in a small town

Big city life may have its glitz and glamor, but there is something unique about a small town. People know their neighbors and often lend a helping hand without a thought to what's in it for me. There is a camaraderie of spirit. Often this closeness is referred to as your life being an open book. Everyone knows what you are doing. Perhaps the fault in all of this is no secret goes unnoticed.

My mother had a rule that lawns are to be cut on Saturday and woe be unto you if you waited to do so on the Sabbath. I can remember spending hours on the lawn tractor making sure the pasture and the yard was done by sundown as a youth. Now, married, its not exactly the same. I wonder if that comes from the difference in generations or the fact that the Blue laws have been lifted and most stores are open seven days a week. Whatever the case maybe, I still feel awkward cutting the grass on Sunday. I'm rambling so let me explain why.

Grass didn't get finished this week on Saturday. Yep, we've a bit more to do today. Oh yes, I will be helping with the little push mower that can be cantankerous at times. While all the good folk will be making their way home for that big dinner, I'll be out there doing the trim work. Husband will of course have already cut the larger portions of the yard where the trees and flowerbeds aren't. He'll have retired to the chairs in the driveway, beneath the shade of the pines, and in his hand will be a nice cold one.

When I begin cutting the country road that we reside on will be still and silent. But the roar of the motor will draw folks like the cry of a snake oil salesman. It will begin with a single car. The more I push, the more will suddenly ride by. The sound of the mower will draw their heads and they will gaze upon my face, red from exertion and then glower over at my husband who sinks lower and lower into his chair until it threatens to spill him from its seat. Then when the mower chugs off because its encountered that clump of grass too stubborn to be cut, he'll mosey over and take it from my hand, offering to do the manly thing and finish for me.

Oh, I'll protest. But, here in the south, a woman knows when to give up. I'll walk back to the kitchen and pour myself a nice, cold glass of sweet tea. Maybe I'll even place a wedge of lemon on the side, then I'll go out to the chairs and sit. The cars will dwindle. All has been made right with the world. I mean a woman can't be expected to cut a lawn properly - now can she. ( wink )

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