Summer Rain

It’s morning. I’ve Skyped. I’ve breakfasted. Now I throw on shorts, step onto my front porch, collect my mail, and eyeball my yard. I want to mow today. It’s been a week and the grass needs cutting, plus today is cloudy, a bonus when it comes to yard work. But drops of water sparkle amongst the blades of grass. Lacking sunshine to banish it, the early morning dew lingers. For now, the grass is too wet to mow.

Time passes; the noon hour nears. The day grows darker, the air hotter and muggier. I turn on the a/c. I go to an open window to close it, and as I lean toward the window, I smell rain. It’s not raining now but it’s going to rain soon. It’s in the air; it’s close.

Twenty minutes later, the rain arrives with a downpour but then settles into a steady, light rainfall as if it means to say, “I’ll be here for a while.” My reply: “Go right ahead. You’ve already soaked the grass; whatever notion I had that I might mow this afternoon is gone. So stick around and water the mushrooms that will soon be sprouting in my yard.” The rain obliges and hangs around.

Yesterday I noticed that one of my neighbors has planted several faux mushrooms in her front yard, little plastic, possibly ceramic, obstacles to mow around, or remove before mowing and replant afterward. Good thinking, lady; that’s what you need: more impediments to mowing, because pushing a mower around the yard isn’t trouble enough. Plant gee-gaws in your yard to make mowing more challenging. But who am I to criticize? If gee-gaws make you happy, go for ‘em. Just stay away from my yard. When I want mushrooms in my yard, I’ll get them the old-fashioned way. I’ll let the rain and central Virginia humidity incubate them there.

Hours pass and the sky remains dark, the rain comes down hard again. Most summers see my lawn turn brown and crispy as the grass bakes and dies under too many sunny days. But not this summer. This summer has seen its share of rain. Almost every week I have to “mow around” rainy days. Mowing around obstacles is one thing; mowing around days of the week is another level of planning. And when I think I have it planned, the rainy day moves to a different day of the week and my mowing plan is shot to hell, and I end up with grass too high to mow without stalling the mower – which is a whole other kind of pain in the tookus.

More hours pass; now it's night, almost time for sleep. The rain is gone, the outside temperature is a reasonable 72°. But the humidity is about 110 percent. The air is dank; it even smells wet, moldy. Tomorrow the heat returns. I’ll have a chance to mow the already-too-high grass while sweating out two pounds of perspiration. I expect one day my body will be found lying in my yard with my hand still on the mower throttle. With luck, someone will write a country song about it.