Today I hauled the old lawnmower out of
the shed, where it had long lain hibernating. (I say “the” shed since
the reference is in fact unambiguous: unlike Arthur ‘Two Sheds’
Jackson, I personally possess only one shed.) I gassed ‘er up, and, in
lieu of actually oiling anything or “replacing the plugs and points”
(what is a point,
exactly?), since I don’t understand anything about lawnmowers, I
contented myself with prodding it here and there with my toe, and eyeing
it with a masculine, propriety air -- with just a hint of asperity to
it, along the lines of, “Let’s not have any of that won’t-start-up
nonsense this time, shall we?”
For
we have here that annually recurring agony of vernal uncertainty. You
set your stance, seize the ripcord, let loose your mightiest tug, and…
it either leaps to life with a throaty roar, or… splutters impotently,
mocking you, and then you’re hosed.
(I
must here explain for the ladies, who would otherwise scarcely
understand, that failure of one’s lawnmower to start, is humiliating for
a man.)
Yet lo! With a deafening neigh worthy of Bucephalus,
and a forward leap recalling Pegasus,
the noble mower sprang into action -- the very first on our cul-de-sac, this season, to do so!
Dr Justice, taming his lawnmower |
and a forward leap recalling Pegasus,
My trusty mower, defeating the weeds |
the noble mower sprang into action -- the very first on our cul-de-sac, this season, to do so!
Thanking
the gods, I strode forward, laying low the uppity tussocks and
insolent weeds, like Hector mowing down Myrmidons, relishing in Man’s
estate.
In ancient Rome, it was considered a most auspicious omen, when one’s lawnmover started right up in the spring.
~
~ ~
For an exhilarating
parable
in which Spring
becomes general,
and dry twigs send forth green leaves, see
Murphy and the Magic Pawnshop
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~
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