Lawnmowers and life

Wheelchair, my new reality

During the summer months, I often hear the sound of a mower or two. Since we live across the street from Collins Park, if I look out the window, I will see a mower or two keeping the grass mowed. I check because the young man who has tended our lawn during the summer doesn’t always call ahead. Sometimes, the sound of the mower comes from his equipment as he mows and trims.

We’re thankful that a few years ago, our neighbor Rachel, knowing Keith was no longer able to take care of our yard, talked to a father and son who was mowing one of her neighbor’s yards. Turns out, Dad was getting his 13-year-old son started mowing lawns. Gavin began mowing our lawn. He was shy then. Now Gavin is an experienced presence during the summer months and we’re so glad he is still mowing lawns. It has been a delight to watch him grow into a confident young man.

My dad did all our mowing when I was young. When my older sister was able to handle the push lawn mower, which was all we had when I grew up, Dad taught her how to mow. I knew that job would be hers until I was old enough. I didn’t really want to take over on one hand. On the other hand, mowing would mean I’d grown to where Dad would trust me with the job.

In Wyoming, we didn’t have much of a lawn, and much of what passed as lawn dad converted into a garden. The soil was hard as a rock until moisture hit it—and that was seldom. Once rain descended, the soil became muck that sucked like quicksand.

By the time we moved to northern Kansas, I was strong for my age. The parsonage was a working farm maintained by the farmers in the congregation. Much to my delight, it meant we could have animals. One farmer lent us a milk cow. I was able to see the fruition of my dream to have a horse. My younger brother had a pony. We kids raised calves, selling them when they were ready. With the money earned, we opened our own bank accounts. It was a way our folks began to teach us about money.

 While Paul and I attended a country school, Karin attended high school in Oberlin. With her involvement in drama and other after-school activities, she often stayed in town with a friend. In Kansas, we had a large yard and unfenced areas that also needed mowing. I knew it wouldn’t be long until Dad would show me how to mow.

 By the time it was my turn, I no longer felt very well. Fearing something awful, I tried to hide my aches and pains that made it agony to jump off my horse. Dad did ask me to mow and watched as I tried to force that hand mower through the grass. He saw more than I wanted him too. Mom was noticing things and even my teacher shared concerns with my folks.

 Dad took me to a doctor in town. It was then I learned I had juvenile rheumatoid arthritis and began a long journey of pain and limitations and dealing with a new reality in my life. Dad also bought a power mower to handle the grass and weeds on the parsonage farm.

 Dad actually loved gardening and turning the places we lived, as he was called from one pastorate to another, into welcoming places of nicely mowed grass, gardens, and well-trimmed trees.

 I never mowed and it was ten years before I was able to walk again. Mom and Dad never gave up on me. They encouraged me to do all I could do and be all I could be. Most of all they shared their faith and assured me that no matter what, Jesus loved me and had a plan and purpose for my life.

 There is nothing wrong with any work. Mowing gets one outside and provides exercise, and for some—income. Today, hearing mowers from the park, from neighbors or from Gavin on our lawn, takes me back, helps me remember, and helps me be thankful that even in the tough times, God doesn’t let go. In my case, it meant it never became my turn to mow.

 © 2024 Carolyn R Scheidies
Published Kearney Hub column 8/22/23
https://kearneyhub.com/eedition/page-a4/page_7d3b6c96-c5bb-50e2-abc3-54f1e3ab6dd5.html
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