Lawnmower men – a cut above

Camouflage hat. Grimy blue jeans. Old work boots. A shirt with a tear here, a tear there, a grease spot here, a grease spot there. Scraggly grey beard.

That was the description of two gentlemen – not twins mind you but alike in general appearance/dress – that caught my eye one day last week as I sat in the booth of a local fast-food restaurant.

In fact it surprised me that I even noticed them, my mind racing/cataloging all the things that needed to be done. Couldn’t sit still. “Gotta go!” “Gotta go!” “Gotta do this!” “Gotta do that!” “Gotta go here!” “Gotta go there!” “This needs to be done!” “That needs to be done!” Two jobs – the lifestyle of a writer and a preacher leaves little room for less (I know I not the exception but the norm in that regard), and in fact I was only there because I had a few minutes in between meetings.

But something about them seemed familiar. “Something about this scene I’ve seen before,” I thought.

And then it dawned on me. They’re “lawnmower men”.

Lawnmower men: Typically those men and women – mostly men from what I’ve noted – who’ve done their time and are now retired.

My dad eventually became a lawnmower man before he passed. His best friend became a lawnmower man.

In fact, God bless them, there are millions of them the world over. You’ll find them daily – same time, same place; clockwork – in any and every fast-food joint/greasy spoon diner.

You might overhear them talking about washers or dryers or carpentry or electrician work. Or they may even venture into religion or politics or even transition into some major stuff like talking about foreign policy or economics.

My dad and his best friend … well, they loved talking about lawnmowers (hence the branding I’m sure you figured).

Tinkerers of the trade at best, they were no less experts in their minds. (Both retired from Robins but lawnmower men and women for some odd reason don’t tend to talk about their former lives. I’ve often wondered in many cases if it isn’t the same effect as a convict finally being let out of prison.) “It’s the throttle shutter.” “No, I think it’s the check valve.” “We just might need to replace the fuel pump all together.” “Naw. Costs too much. Let’s just try rebuilding it.”

And on and on it would go, typically ending in a stalemate, typically climaxing in: much tackled – by way of conversation (and coffee) – but little solved else wise.

And that’s how it is with lawnmower men. “No sweat. We’ll figure it out tomorrow.”

That is not to say they aren’t – weren’t – teachers. Oh no. They taught me much on that day, and as I look back on my life, I’m again amazed at how slow I am to actually “get it”.

There was (also) a reason my dad insisted on driving to my uncle’s pretty much every Sunday just so he and the latter could sit on the front porch and do absolutely nothing. I didn’t understand it then. I do now. He was a lawnmower man. They were lawnmower men. They are lawnmower men (and again, women).

Their lesson – and perhaps they had to learn it the hard way too: Life is too short. Slow down. Enjoy it … one sparkplug at a time.

*****

Well, yesterday was tax day. (I am actually writing this ON tax day and PRIOR to doing my taxes.)

I have really gotten tax day down to a science. Knowing I AM GOING TO PAY (I always pay) I have become the ultimate in consistency. I always wait until the last minute and I ALWAYS, ALWAYS – or at least for three years running – am unable to find my wife’s W2.

She is the ultimate in consitency too. “Well. I gave it to you!”

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