Page 120 - ECOlogic Book

bolts and gears and internal (are you sure?), combustion?,” I wondered,
“Where is the dignity of the aged?”

But on the second mowing, as I opened the throttle to the max, lurching
forward and accelerating full speed ahead, blades down, cutting a swath the

size of my dining room table through the chicory and Queen Anne’s lace, I
suddenly understood the macho attraction to huge motors that make a lot of
noise. I felt powerful, as I never had before. That a small, vulnerable,
basically unprotected human could do so much damage in such a short time
was truly amazing. Energized by the rush of it, I sat up as straight as I
could, squared my jaw, and drew a bead on the far edge of the property.

That must have been the time I decided to take ‘er up the ramp myself,

bracing for the probable crashing through the shed wall if I should forget the
instructions for stopping. I didn’t crash, and after that I thought there was
nothing I couldn’t do with that tractor. I could turn ‘er on a dime, and I
learned to swerve up so close to the water meter that I nicked it frequently.

I was hooked. Each time I mowed I promised myself it was the last time.
Like an alcoholic swearing off the bottle the morning after, I would remind
myself of my ecological purity. In my mind I’d go over all the reasons why
mowing is a bad addiction.

How soon we forget. A week would go by, then two, and then three. The
Queen Anne’s lace would pop up again. And the thistles. And the dock. I’d go
skulking off to the shed, like a drunk remembering a hidden bottle, and
crank ‘er up for another shot of raw Power! Yesss! Powwerrrr!

The Turning Point
What was the turning point? What event pulled me back from this

degradation? It must have been the killdeer. We’d watched from the
window every day in the spring, hoping to see chicks, as she’d sat on her
nest in the driveway. We’d swerved around the nest every time we drove in
or out of the garage. We’d put Invisible Fence flags around the nest, to warn
unsuspecting guests, and we’d run down to the mailbox, to warn delivery
trucks. Incubation seemed to take forever and we wondered if, because of
all the disturbances, she’d been off the nest too much.

Then, one gentle June morning while Jan was at work, I watched from the

dining room window as one, then two, then three, and finally, a fourth
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