Recently, as I was struggling to get the John Deere started before the sweet crescent moon slipped into the sun’s spot over the mountains, I realized I need a mannot in the sense that I am ready to recant the whole “fish needs a bicycle” feminist mantra, but in the practical sense.
As I sped — as if that’s possible on a riding mower — through the deep alfalfa that passes for a back lawn, I flinched at the sight of thigh-high grass casting deep shadows on the strawberry patch.
I was smacked in the face by whip- thin branches suckering off the trunk of the pear tree and shamed by the improbable tangle of wild blackberries imprisoning a couple of basketballs and a house jack near the shed.
Like the thistles at the edge of bloom in the shady spot out front, these problems might be manageable if I wasn’t so distracted by the pleasant things going on in the yard, like dogs and chickens and bees and kids and poppies and rhubarb.
I’m looking for a strong and silent type, someone who would stop by once a week to mow, maybe another time to just deal with the weeds and branches and brambles, and then leave me to my backyard bliss. He would be paid by the hour. After all, I’m not in it for a relationship.
Dana Coffield, The Denver Post
