Seasons in the Sun

Summer yard work morphs into fall yard work, which morphs into winter shoveling, which morphs into more shoveling and more shoveling and still more shoveling.
And then, just as the season seems to be slouching toward spring ... you shovel some more.
Spring pops in for a cameo and stays about 20 minutes.
Back to summer yard work.
My early memories include raking our yard nice and clean – and then jumping with my siblings and neighborhood friends into the fragrant piles of leaves, scattering them to the wind.
Had to mow our lawn and the neighbor’s with an old-time, motor-free push mower, wet grass or not, starting around age 9, when I stood about 4 1⁄2 feet tall and weighed 50 or 60 pounds.
Also had to shovel our walk and driveway and the neighbor’s, whether the temperature was plus-30 or minus-50. There was much despair, and wailing and gnashing of teeth, ‘cause the snow often stuck to the shovel, and tossing a shovelful of snow into a gale brought the snow back into your face, and you were sure you were going to lose your face (encased in a wet, frozen scarf), your fingers (in wet mittens) and toes (in those little yellow kids’ rain boots) to frostbite.

But you soldiered on, ‘cause you gured (rightly) that you had no choice. And Ella Mae, my kind neighbor, would give me $4 for my hard work. That was big money for a kid growing up Back in the Day. It could get me a pack or two of baseball cards, with a big piece of chalky gum inside, and maybe even a fabulous sherbet Push-Up.

Anyway, now I’m riding an actual riding mower around my place out in the Country, mowing monstrous weeds that look like they might attack if I don’t get ‘em first. This mower and I are on shaky ground. Literally. Get too close to even a tiny ridge and ... Oh God, we’re gonna tip! Hasn’t happened yet. I’ve learned my lesson. For now.

There’s something about mowing a lawn. You can see progress as you go, it looks great when you’re done, and the smell of fresh-mown grass is second to none.
But I also appreciate the past and present smells of new-mown hay, burning leaves in the fall, approaching rain, the horsehide pocket of my old Lou Brock baseball glove, my mom and dad’s basement “fruit cellar,” my dad’s pancakes (sometimes with chunks of apples, sometimes with Spam) sizzling on the grill when we camped in the Black Hills, brand new tennis shoes (“run faster, jump higher!”), pine trees (and the unique pine tree smell in Glacier National Park), lilacs, and nice perfume on a pretty girl.
God help me, I like also like the mysterious deep-woods smell of skunk (or “stunk,” as my baby brother referred to them), and the incredible, out-of-body feeling of running long miles in the country on lovely evenings which I hoped would never end.
Gotta mow. Gotta shovel. Gotta smell the roses. Gotta run. Gotta remember and smile.
Gotta love it.