Wednesday, June 01, 2005

The whole nine yards, and a trail of blood.

My house is on the top of a rise. It's surrounded by a circular driveway. Today I cut the grass in the 'immediate front yard,' on the house side of the driveway. I also cut the grass in the 'immediate back yard.' I got a good start on the grass in the outer back yard, this side of the woods, but I ran out of gas. Literally and figuratively. The grass on the piney woods side, and on the tiny limestone house side, will just have to wait. The neighbor kids were riding their four-wheelers on the huge 'between the dip and the road' yard, so I don't feel bad about leaving it out, either. The front dip yard has three sections: the middle, the left, and the right. The right has two sections: ours and the neighbors, which we cut for them because they don't have a tractor and it's too much for a push mower because of all the turtles.

That expression "the whole nine yards?" I live it every day.

News flash: I sighted the first snake in twenty years in my front yard as its mangled body shot out the side of the mower. Let this be a lesson to the other snakes. Do not set scale in my yard lest ye be vivisected by the whirling blades of death.

The other day a poltergeist broke the tall glass lamp of an oil lantern. I swept up all the pieces and warned everybody not to go barefoot in the kitchen for a while.

I'm still finding pieces of glass, even after using a broom AND a sweeper attachment.

I put the pieces in the trash, and cautioned Hub about the broken glass in there.

While tidying the kitchen for the breakfast company the other day, I picked up that trash, put a twist-tie on it, and carried it out to the deck so Hub could put it in the back of his truck and haul it away. As I was dragging the huge bag through the french doors, a piece of glass broke through the plastic and gashed my leg. It's going to leave a dandy scar. If I had money, I'd have gone to get a few stitches.

As I walked back into the kitchen, dripping blood, I stepped on yet another stray piece of glass that has somehow escaped the broom and the sweeper.

I am not safe around sharp objects. They will find me and they will have their way with me.

Pop always tasted best in bottles, but I've broken too many bottle-necks off with the opener, and gashed my fingers, my wrists, my hands, to mind that they've gone the way of the dinosaur. I even cut my right thumb off, years ago. It was successfully reattached, but when you touch the scar, I can feel it on my shoulder.

As for that lantern-glass, I didn't drop it. Nobody did. It was my uncle's, and I had washed it and set the entire lamp on top of the counter to dry. Nobody touched it. All on its own, it leaped up and crashed down on the floor.

Proof positive that my house is trying to kill me.