Lawn Mower Summers

Today, my husband, soulmate, and partner in crime, Larry K. Collins, shares a memory from his childhood. 

For about three years, starting when I was eleven or twelve, I mowed lawns in my neighborhood to make extra spending money. Several of the neighbors gladly hired me for the chore.

I used my father’s push mower. It was old school. The forward movement of the wheels drove the vertically rotating blades which sliced against a fixed blade. A grass catcher hooked on the back and was held in place by a coat-hanger-like contraption hung from the mower handle. I turned the mower upside down, threw the catcher on top, and dragged it down the street to the selected house.

A year later, a young couple from the next street over heard about me and asked if I would do their lawn on a regular basis, twice a month for $20.00 monthly. Wow, a steady source of income. And the best perk was he had a new state-of-the-art, rotary-type power lawn mower I could use. On this model, a propeller type blade spun horizontally under a protective metal housing. The gas-driven engine sat on top, and grass clippings were thrown out an opening on the left side of the machine. The motor only worked the blade, so I still had to push it across the yard. I agreed to mow and edge the property.

The couple and their two daughters, one three and the other a year old, had moved in recently. He was a news announcer for a local radio station, and she a retired airline stewardess. In those days the airlines didn’t allow married stewardesses.

Their house was located on a curve, so the front yard was small, but the back was gigantic. Behind the house was a vast field of grass sloping down to a six-foot high concrete block wall on two sides. A detached garage and driveway completed the third side. There were no bushes or shrubs except for three sickly little rose bushes along the garage and a fifteen-foot high peach tree in the far corner. Near the rear steps from the house was a patio. Well, really a ten-by-ten square concrete pad set with two outdoor lounge chairs, the kind with plastic webbing screwed to an aluminum frame, and a low table of the same construction placed between. During the summer months, a small inflatable kiddy pool rested on the lawn nearby.

The first day, the wife led me to the garage. Her husband was at work. She pointed out the machine. Then I was left to figure out how to use it. After several unsuccessful pulls of the starter rope, I finally found and read the instruction manual, checked gas and oil levels, set the speed control lever on the handlebar to ‘start’ position and tried again. Success. One problem solved.

The instructions also said to mow the lawn in counterclockwise circles from the outside to the center of the yard. Grass clippings thrown from the mower would be reduced to mulch, which would become fertilizer. It worked well. Soon the lawn in the center grew so thick I could hardly push the mower thorough it.

My first pass around the yard was also almost my last. As I approached the peach tree, I heard a loud twang from the blade, and a peach-pit struck me in the groin. Ouch! I learned quickly to rake fallen peaches from around the tree first.

During the summer months, the wife would sunbathe while the children played in the pool. Often, one of her girlfriends and her two-year-old son would join them. Two wine glasses would occupy the small table. It was my first introduction to twenty-five-year-old ex-stewardesses in bikinis. I tried not to stare.

One eventful day, I was trimming the tall grass around base of the steps with my hand clippers when the phone in the kitchen rang. The wife, lying on her stomach leapt to her feet and ran past me up the stairs to answer. In her haste, she forgot she had unhooked the bra back-strap to prevent a tan line.

Her girlfriend, seeing my stupefied expression, burst into laughter.

Thinking back now, the neck strap was still tied, so I didn’t get much of a view. Still, since I vividly remember the incident after more than sixty years, it must have made quite an impression on my preteen psyche.

I mowed their lawn faithfully for several more years, but sadly, it never happened again.

Surfing A Ten-foot Wave, Sunset Beach, 1988

Larry K. Collins, my husband, co-author, best friend, and cohort in crime is my guest blogger this week.

Having surfed for the past sixty years, I’ve ridden countless waves. Many are forgettable. Still, a few will stay in my memory forever. Even today, I can close my eyes and relive every movement and feeling of the glorious ride.

I decided to describe one memorable ride. But to do it without the surf jargon and clichés normally used to describe the sport and make it accessible to people who have never surfed or even seen the sport. Here is my attempt.

I’m sitting on my board beyond the surf line, facing out to sea. Twenty yards inshore, fifteen or more other surfers, most not even half my age, jockey for position on the incoming swells. I sit farther out, as my ten-foot surfboard allows me to catch waves earlier. They ride the shorter high-performance boards.

Even though I’ve done this countless times, my heart still races as I spot a swell building over the outer reefs, and see the wave begin to take shape. Others see it, also. They begin a hasty paddle out toward me. I turn and start to paddle, arms digging deep into the water. I’ll need speed to catch this one. I glance over my shoulder to position myself. It’s going to be steep.

As the swell lifts the board’s tail, I rise, my left foot forward, my weight pressing the nose down against the wind, right foot steady for balance, knees slightly bent to absorb the bumps and undulations of an ever steepening face.

Before reaching the bottom, I shift my right foot back and press hard on the right-hand rail. The board obediently sweeps right to line up with the wall of water stretching out before me. Two steps forward to the trim spot, the fastest position. I’ll need all the speed I can muster. Behind me, I hear the thunderous roar of the collapsing wave.

My hand dragging on the liquid wall adds stability. My heart’s pumping, mind awake, senses sharp. The wave arches over my head, and in a kaleidoscope of greens, blues, and whites, splashes into the sea beyond my board. I’m in the tube, the barrel. I’m steady in the eye of the storm. Water sheets from the roof above, hitting my face and chest. I blink to clear my vision and crouch lower to urge the board onward.

Then I emerge into the light, out of the tube, and back again on the green wall. Ahead, I see the wave collapse and another tube heads my direction. Time to get out. I sweep a turn to drive the nose up the vertical face, past the lip, and ten feet beyond. I kick the board away, so as not to land on it, and splash on my back into the warm Hawaiian water.

A quick breath, then I feel the pull of the leash attached to my ankle. I’ve made it over the wave. My board did not. I’m pulled backward and drawn below the surface, clawing at the water, struggling against the maelstrom behind me. Finally, the board slips free. I fight to the surface and pull myself aboard.

It’s not over. Another wave looms outside. I stroke for the rising horizon, lungs gasping for air. Oxygen-starved arms feel like I’m pulling noodles through molasses. Offshore winds feather the wave’s crest as I sweep up the wall, over the top, and down the back. Another thirty strokes, and I’m safe outside again. I let out a yell.

It doesn’t get any better that this.

First Christmas Memory

Last week I attended a wonderful Christmas Tea for the ladies in our neighborhood. What a lovely event! We have lived in this house for well over twenty-eight years. During this time, we have gotten to know many of our neighbors quite well, especially those at our end of the cul-de-sac. I was thrilled to receive the invitation from Pam for this special afternoon event and even more delighted to be retired and able to attend.

Each year, our end of the street holds an annual Christmas party for everyone—the guys included. The tea was the first occasion for all the ladies to get together, not just from our street, but from the other two cul-de-sacs and the street entering our small tract. I had seen most of the gals around and knew a few, but the party was a chance to meet some of the others.

After we enjoyed the yummy goodies and carried on some terrific one-on-one conversations, Pam asked us to sit in the family room, decorated festively to enhance the holiday feel.

She passed out strips of paper with different questions for everyone to answer so we could get to know each other better. Mine said: What is your earliest Christmas memory?

I didn’t have to think very long to answer. Those of you who know me are aware that my brother and I both are blessed with incredible memories. We sometimes surprise ourselves with the things we remember.

My earliest memory is from when I was sixteen months old. (I turned two at the end of August, and this was December.)

I remember being lifted to stand on my grandparents’ dining room table. (My grandfather must have been responsible for putting me there, as my grandmother would never have approved of my standing on the furniture.)

I remember the look of my black patent Mary Janes and the feel of my starched, ruffled, and ironed dress. I looked up to see a sea of adult faces.

When prompted (I assume, again by my grandfather, who doted on me), I began to recite:

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,

In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;

The children were nestled all snug in their beds;

While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;

And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap,

Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap…

I rattled off the poem like a rapid-fire machine gun, pausing only every two lines to take a deep breath. I finished the poem—all of it, and everyone applauded.

I remember feeling very accomplished, but not a bit frightened.

The story became something of a family legend. My mother wrote about it in my baby book, and various friends of my grandparents told me about it for years, so I know it’s true. I also have snippets of memory of having done it.

My grandfather read to me every single night. He came to our little house (built behind my grandparents’ big one) as soon as he got home from work. I had a whole drawer full of Little Golden Books. Grandpa let me pick out whichever one I wanted him to read. When I found a favorite, he’d repeat it over and over. I became obsessed with A Visit From St. Nicholas (the real name of the poem, by the way). He read it so often I memorized it.

I tried it again the other night, and I still remember every word. As a kid, I became annoyed when anyone said the wrong words—like “Merry Christmas to all” instead of “Happy Christmas to all” or called Donner “Donder.”

I learned a few things from my memory of this performance.

1.   I came by my mouth naturally.
2.   I’ve always loved the sound of words.
3.   Even from such an early age, I always felt comfortable speaking in front of other people.

No wonder I became a writer.

Do you have an early Christmas memory? If so, what is it?