Well, this won’t have anything to do with winter or Christmas, although it may make you thankful for this time of year.
It was 2007. I was helping my dad mow lawns. We mowed this lawn so many times but never had any problems.
For some reason, on this humid July day, the tides of change had turned, but not in my favor.
The way we worked it, Dad would work the weed eater while I used the Grasshopper zero-turn. I mowed the large yard without incident.
Everything seemed normal. I didn’t realize the swarm of pain developing underground as I crossed back and forth across the front yard.
I finished the lawn as Dad finished the edging. I grabbed the blower and cleaned off the sidewalks around the house. My final destination was the sidewalk in front of the house and the porch.
Walking across a yard is so commonplace that I’ve never thought twice about it. I’ve walked across thousands of yards. I would consider myself highly skilled in the area of yard walking. I’m the best there is.
But when I stepped off the porch, that’s when walking across the yard changed for me. The yard became a war zone. The battlefield between a tall, lanky galoot and the nearly invisible and detrimental flying lemon-colored windbreakers. More commonly known as yellow jackets.
I guess I stepped in the wrong spot. All I know is I was on my way back to the truck when I began experiencing pops of pain all over my legs.
You’ve never seen a high-stepper before. In addition to my expert yard walking ability, I suddenly became extraordinarily proficient at clogging.
It’s so easy to clog in the grass, and although I didn’t intend to stay there too long, I did a little dance number for the neighbors and passersby, and I threw in a few arm swings and pelvic maneuvers for effect.
I also included a few hand slaps to the lower back, thighs, and calves just to show off a tad of my percussion abilities.
I looked over at my father, who was leaning against the truck. What a big help he was, doubling over with laughter like that.
I ran toward the driveway, screaming for him to get in and start the truck. At some point, the yellow jackets ran out of stingers or just started laughing because the attack stopped the further away I got from their nest. They realized that I meant no harm and posed absolutely zero threat to their existence.
I’m not one for exhibiting public indecency, but when the whelps hurt like the dickens, and you believe your legs are on fire inside your britches, you’ll do just about anything to make sure the pain subsides as quickly as possible, even if that means dropping everything to tend to the battlefield injuries.
And that’s the day I decided against pursuing a career in lawn beautification.
to the winter months,
– Caleb
caneymountainblog.com 