Last fall Mark got a new lawn mower. He had never before owned a new lawn mower, and had spent hours each week working on our old one. We went ahead and bought a spiffy new lawn cart to go with it. This lawn mower is his mechanical pride and joy. He changes the oil regularly, washes the deck after mowings, and all but spit polishes it and kisses it goodnight. He taught Austin how to run it before he taught me, and I assume this means that a man of nearly any age is more trustworthy with machinery than I. I did my fair share of mowing in junior high and high school for my parents - who own quite a bit of acreage. So I'm not completely inept at running machinery. However, I do have a tendency toward paranoia at swooping birds, and I have been known to jump off machinery and run around screaming that the birds are attacking my hair. I always say, birds can recognize good nest material when they see it.
Anyway, Austin is actually the one who gave me mower instructions, and he is a great instructor. If I was half the student he is an instructor, we wouldn't have run into trouble. On this particular occasion (as I often do) I was trying to figure out how to entertain the kids while getting work done. So I thought - "the lawn needs mowed" and simultaneously "hey, big lawn cart, and kids love rides." So I hooked up the cart and told the kids to hop in the back. Claire and Levi gladly did. I gave strict instructions that they remain seated at all times while the mower was in motion. They looked at me like that was a no-brainer, and we proceeded as I engaged the mower. The first 5 minutes or so things went GREAT. The kids were having fun, and I was getting work done. It was like parenting utopia. I had entered the magical world where work and fun meet and seem to effortlessly pair. As it turns out, they've met before and couldn't stand each other and decided it would never work out. On this occasion, they only briefly acknowledged one another in passing.
Our lawn is a hilly place - especially in the back. The first problem came when I realized that Austin hadn't told me how to engage the brake. (This happened, you see, because this new machine had something called hydrostatic transmission - which, for all you women out there, means it stops or slows when you take your foot off the main pedal.) This being a hilly lawn, you can imagine the problem as I was barreling down the hill toward the 32' round pool. Visions of running into the water-filled mammoth on my lawn mower - kids in tow - tore through my mind as we bounced down the hill recklessly toward it. I swerved and barely missed the pool. I ended up on a flatter surface and, when I could actually breathe again, I decided I should go find Austin for a few more lessons. So I started to climb the hill slowly - only to realize that the machine didn't want to pull me and the children up the steeper incline at the degree of turn I was asking. So we started to roll backward... back toward the pool. The lawn cart suddenly jackknifed - stopping us briefly, and the insides of the one tire ripped out and the whole tire just fell off the wheel hub. As I glanced sheepishly at the MADE IN U.S.A. sticker on the back of the lawn cart I wondered if it applied to the tires on the cart as well, because I had to console myself that they were manufactured elsewhere. (Of course, I'm not even certain that my fellow Americans could build machinery that could see me coming.) I finally found the brake, but the parking break eluded me. I pushed down tightly on the brake and sent Claire off to find Austin to show me where the parking brake was before we rolled any farther down hill. I realized that I would have to eat humble pie in front of my teenager - which is never fun, not to mention that his dad would surely be consoled that he had made the right decision about who to train on the proper use of his new machine. The fact that I was "only trying to help" would be appreciated but mostly eclipsed in the muck of not only having to still mow the lawn but also having to now fix the mower and cart that I had driven into a pickle.
Fast forward a year, and spring outage 2010 comes. Mark is working his long hours again, and, as Sunday morning comes, a strange scratching in the flue/pipe of our living room wood stove. I've long found this wood stove useless for us, and we just store old newspapers in there right now... in case the apocalypse comes, and we can't buy pinatas and other paper mache` items anymore. We'll have quite the business, I imagine. But I digress... There was a bird in our flue. It flew into our flue. (homophones) I love nature, but flying things and I don't always get along (as evidenced in the above narrative). My dad came that morning to pick up Austin for church... as the little ones were sick, and I was staying home with them. He said that he was running late, but when they came back they would help me get it out of the flue. Well, after about an hour at home, I realized that the scratching and flying had stopped, and I assumed that the bird had flown the flue. The dog, however, was not as convinced and kept his eyes firmly peeled as he shook nervously at the edge of the stove.
I reached into the stove to put the Saturday paper inside, and something jumped and flapped. It was the bird. I screamed and shut the door. The dog was going crazy. The kids thought I was the one who was going crazy. Anyway, after about an hour I thought to myself, "This is stupid. I can catch a little bird, and put it outside." Do you ever get that? The pioneer spirit of my great grandmothers rears it's can-do attitude and gets me into trouble. I grabbed a large plastic bag and held it in front of the door of the stove and opened the door. The bird saw a chink in my armor (maybe that it was a plastic bag) and flew straight out the door and into our living room. It flew back and forth divebombing me and the little ones. I was screaming, ducking, and holding onto my hair. It was a true coward-fest my children were witnessing. I think I scared the poor bird (a sparrow, if you were wondering), and it ran into a window and fell to the floor on the stairs. I rarely wish death on any of God's creatures, but I went to try to take what I hoped was a dead bird outside. As I went to pick it up, the bird flew up into my face and started circling the living room again... to the (I'm loath to report) same refrain of screaming and lunacy I had demonstrated only minutes before - apparently 2 minutes had not matured me at all in this particular area.
Finally the bird flew downstairs, and I regained a small amount of composure. Weighing all my options and realizing that I couldn't leave the creature down in my family room to "grossify" it all up, I went downstairs to search for it. I found the stunned creature about 5 feet from the glass sliding doors clicking. It was clicking its beak. I don't know what that means, but I'm pretty sure it has something to do with stress. If had had a beak, I am pretty sure I would have been clicking too. I moved closer to it, and it didn't even try to move away from me. I figured it would start to fly again, but it just sat there. I grabbed a towel and tossed it over the bird, and the bird still sat there. I picked it up to move it outside, and it still didn't move. It sat in the grass for a good 10 minutes, and, as I was about to take its picture for memorabilia, it flew away. I was glad I hadn't killed it - or vice versa.
All in all, dignity gone (which isn't a new thing for me), I felt pretty good about the outcome. "Hear me roar" and all. I managed to handle the situation (with very little grace), but I got the job done. I would surely impress my dad and Mark that they didn't have to help little, old, helpless me. I ended up with a decent story to tell as well. I didn't make friends with the aviary kingdom that day. That would have been the ideal outcome, but I don't think I'll be enjoying birds any time soon - except through binoculars and on my dinner plate.
I feel blessed that I do have men in my life who will take care of me. I know some women bristle at the idea, but I like to be taken care of, and I don't mind being thought of as "the weaker sex", because sometimes - especially physically - I am. And I like that my dad, my husband, and now my sons, all like to come to my rescue when I need it. Family is an excellent thing. We were at a combined, family birthday party tonight, and I needed to write 4 birthday checks, but halfway there realized we only had 3 checks left in the checkbook. Mark and I debated as we were giving everyone else $30 checks, we had two $20 bills between us for cash, and we couldn't give someone $40 over the rest. What a dilemma. I realized, as tacky as it sounds, family are people that you can ask to give you change from their birthday card money. Dad was happy to oblige and come to my rescue again. :)
I'm pretty sure that God gave us family to show us how He wants us to be with Him - close enough to be real... forgetful, weak, silly, and all... He knows it all anyway, but I'm convinced He gave us a voice for a reason - He likes to hear it. Sure, we could communicate with Him through our minds only, but He loves my voice. It is music to His ears. No matter what I say, He wants to hear it - and maybe the weaker, the better, because, "When I am weak, then I am strong."
II Corinthians 12:9-11
9But he said to me, "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." Therefore I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may rest upon me. 10 For the sake of Christ, then, I am content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions, and calamities. For when I am weak, then I am strong.
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