I start the day with a tank top and shorts, but after a long (well, not that
long) look in the mirror, I change to old jeans and a more conservative
top.....when did my knees get this fat? And that pure white skin is more than even
I want to see???? I put on the old sneakers, open both garage doors and stare
at the tools of a homeowner...mower (small, old, but hopefully still
working), weed eater, wheel barrow, gloves, shovels, rakes, and other tools of which I
don't even know their names, but know that I need and want them. My garage
also holds my gas-guzzling Jeep (even though Robert Redford and I are on first
name basis as we save the Alaskan wilderness) and an old Mustang that I have
inherited from my son, "Sure, Mom, drive it whenever." Of course, it has four
flat tires, a door that won't close, and it doesn't run. It does, however,
make me look cool. I can hear folks strolling by starring at my Mustang. The
garage is lovely, well built, functional, but totally wasted on me.

I pull out the mower...look into the gas tank, looks good, I say to myself
and confidently pull the cord. Nothing. Again. Nothing. I now become one of
the men in the neighborhood. I am the only single female so I follow the
man's role. I see my neighbor next door, Harry, doing the same thing. We share
greetings, but I am not about to tell him I can't start my mower. I add more
gas. Nothing. I push it back and forth quickly in the drive way. Nothing. I
give it a little kick. Nothing. "Hey, Harry!" He takes a look, primes it
and it starts. "I owe you one!" But the race is on. Now he can't get his
mower started and I am turning the corner, I race persistently and slide into
home, and he still can't get his mower to work. "Want to borrow mine?" I don't
think real men borrow mowers, at least not in Indiana. I hear baseball game
announcers through open screen windows. I take a break and my other neighbor,
Larry, comes over to inspect my work. I am holding a glass of Pinot Grigio
wine and I say to him, Garrison Keillor had a great show last night! (NPR) He
gives me a blank look...what was I thinking...I am trying to be one of "them."
I should have been holding a beer, and I should have said, "What about those
Cubs?"

I pull out the weed eater. I whisper to myself, please work. Yes! It is
electric and I go to town...keeping it away from the cord and my feet. I wave
at a passing car and dug a hole big enough to plant a tree, but I am
relentless...weeds be gone!

Next comes the raking....I did not rake my leaves last fall, or clean out my
gutters...leaves are everywhere. I have collected not only mine, but most of
the neighborhoods, I rake and clean...things are looking good. My tools are
scattered all over the yard. I look like a professional. I smile. Pour
another glass of wine, sit down to admire my work.

Next I prune my raspberries...where are those gloves? My hands are bleeding
from thorns in every direction....I drop a huge rock on my left big toe...who
needs big toes? I notice the leaves have fossilized on my drive way and will
always be there to remember the year I didn't rake...but then I really love
art....I start the grill...an entire can of lighter fluid later, I just decide
to cook in...the paint is peeling at the top of my house, the roof is leaking,
and who took the concrete off my front porch?

I come in and take a lavender bubble bath, notice my black left toe, my hands
all torn up and out the window I see all the nice charcoal still sitting in
my grill. I am sunburned and achy. But it was still a good day, maybe next
week end I'll buy a bag of fertilizer! All I can say is... what about those
Cubs anyway? Lou Ann

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