Mowing

I love mowing the lawn. What was a chore to a child and a necessity to an adult is a pleasure as an old man. If I have to strap ice packs to my knees and can’t so much as walk to the fridge for a beer afterwards, then fine. Alcohol’s a poison anyway. That rusty old bastard of a mower can never been too heavy, because this is a testament that you, God and M.S. can’t stop me. For one hour a week, for the rest of my life, I will prove it all.