Let It Grow Organic Gardens

And I resumed the struggle. -Vladimir

Sunday, August 07, 2005

Rain As An Obstruction To The American Way

Early afternoon and I'm sitting down at the computer. That's right: it's raining.
Dishes are done and the floor is swept. Windows are washed (insides, anyway) and the laundry room is sort of organized. Mail has been answered and the recycling is neatly compartmentalized into glass and paper and aluminum. After I take these few moments to record my day's events, I'll try to give some semblance of order to the packing shed. Maybe.
But the lawn will not be mowed today, and the hedge will not be trimmed. Not unless it stops raining and the sun comes out like blazes. That is not likely, according to the NOAA website.
The feeling of satisfaction that the clean house gives me is muted by my inability to mow the lawn. It's Sunday, and on Sunday I mow the lawn. Front of the house. Back of the house. Sides of the house. You know, the lawn. It's a duty I take as sacred, most especially now that there's a kid around. I vowed, years ago, both to myself and to my creator, that this kid would not be raised in white trash surroundings. There will be no broken down vehicles around the house, and no dogs chained to trees. No poke weed nor poplar saplings growing along the front walk, and no washing machines on the front porch. I cannot claim that I have been successful at each of these goals, but I do keep the lawn mowed. Religiously. Sunday is lawn mowing day, and I undertake this task with solemn reverence to suburbs, weekends, and the middle class.
It's raining harder now. I don't need to be in the house today - I need to be outside where there are no walls and (perhaps) no obstructions. I wound up at a theremin recital last night. A theremin is some kind of electronic musical instrument that is the way of the future or at least is popular for soundtracks to science fiction movies. There were science fiction movies projected in the background. Classics from the Fifties about beings from other planets coming to visit us here on Earth, and, in the backdrop of each scene, as the people and other planet people walk here and there or drive here and there, was a neatly mowed lawn. There was all this theremin music welling up, a nebulous, formless sound that stayed on no plane and maintained no direction, but backed up, through the efforts of the recitalists, by an even paced xylophone, and a steady plod and plunk of a drum and bass.
I had no idea what direction the future would take, and this made me confused about my place in the present. Was I supposed to focus on the steady and reliable pace of the percussion, and, by extension, keep the lawn mowed? Or, was the sound of the theremin informing me that life is in fact not cut into neatly separated compartments but moves in no predictable direction? And, if so, what does this say about my lawn mowing habits?
A person rarely arrives at definite conclusions when pondering the future. It's a dangerous thing to even try, most days, It's equally dangerous to try to change ingrained habits. That's one thing visitors from other planets will never understand. They don't have lawns in outer space.

3 Comments:

  • At August 07, 2005 6:15 PM, Blogger Mandie said…

    Bravo! What a disseration on the unpredictability of things yet to come! Entertaining, even! :-)

     
  • At August 08, 2005 11:05 AM, Blogger shannon said…

    No poke weed nor poplar saplings growing along the front walk

    Oh Frank, I can see three pokeweeds lining the front walk from where I sit, this poor baby :)

     
  • At August 13, 2005 3:29 PM, Blogger Laurie said…

    I don't really have much ambition any more except maybe that I would like not to look like white trash. Sometimes I succeed, sometimes I don't. Sometimes I wish I gave a damn about the lawn - mowing the lawn has become whacking the weeds. I'm sure that my neighbors wish that I gave a damn.

     

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