Three weeks into country life and I’m learning a whole lot, folks. We country folk like to use that term, “folks,” because it’s just so darn folksy.
I’ve learned you don’t let your 4-pound dog outside by herself because there are hawks just waiting to catch something tasty for their next meal. There haven’t been any close calls yet, but I’ve heard enough stories to think about litter box training for Lulu. Or just encouraging her to go on the carpeting, which is in serious need of replacement anyway.
I’ve learned that what is called a “Zero Turn Mower” is anything but zero turns. My husband tried to explain that the name refers to its turning radius but, believing in truth in advertising, I say they should change the name. I think they should call it “The Mechanical Bull, Tilt-a-Whirl, Merry-Go-Round Mower” but they probably wouldn’t sell as many.
Personally, I think there must be a switch that turns off the thrill ride features because when my husband uses it, he goes smooth and straight as an arrow. I, however, do not. I popped a wheelie, nearly ran over the dog, gave myself whiplash and windburn and that was just with one pass in the backyard.
For the life of me, I couldn’t get the darn thing to go straight, to go slow or make anything other than a 180-degree turn. I’m an ace with a steering wheel, but put long handles in front of me that you have to pull to speed up, push to slow down and alternate pressure on the left or right to turn, and I look like Evel Knievel meets Mr. Magoo.
“There’s something wrong with this machine,” I screamed over the engine that sounds like a 747.
“It’s not the machine, it’s the operator,” my husband yelled back, clearing grass from his face. “Use your arms the same way unless you want to turn it,” he hollered. (That’s another thing we do in the country. We holler.)
“What does that even mean? My arms ARE the same! Are you saying one is shorter than the other?” I wailed as “Lucille” and I took off again, zig-zagging around the house and right through the front yard.
It wasn’t long before my frustration won out and I got off, noticing I’d made enough “crop circles” to warrant a visit from NASA. My husband got on, flipped that secret switch, and finished mowing the yard like it was Firestone Country Club.
I stood there. Hot, jealous and sad, in what I optimistically thought would be my new grass-cutting uniform: Safety glasses, bright blue poncho and a bike helmet. I’d never given a thought to operator error. A tear, or perspiration, began to trickle down my face. I’m surprised my hand was able to reach it after finding out I obviously have a T-Rex arm.
For indoor entertainment, I’ve learned that, in lieu of television, it’s kind of fun to suck up flies with the vacuum attachment. If you have 24 windows, only one window screen and no air conditioning, it’s pretty easy to have a lot of flies in the house.
You also need something to do when you don’t have cable. Technically, we do have cable but we don’t really have anything to watch.
There are two Spanish-speaking channels, neither of which does me any good. I know two lines of Spanish, which, translated, mean “Give me a hot kiss,” and “Meatballs, didn’t I tell you?” These came in handy when I was a single TV reporter in Miami, as I was able to order dinner and end a date. Anymore? Not so much.
Three channels are shopping channels and this is a very bad thing. After I filled up 200 boxes and four 32-foot-long trailers to move out to the country, I’m going the minimalist route. Besides, what makes them think that if we are only paying for the minimum cable subscription, we can afford all that fancy city-folk stuff? And I’ve yet to see them sell any window screens.
Rounding out the other channels are the main four stations out of Cleveland. It’s kind of bittersweet to see my old co-workers well groomed and sitting in an air-conditioned studio with nary a fly. There are also five PBS stations with reruns so old, clearly the public isn’t funding them well enough.
The true gem is the “antenna channel” that plays reruns of Green Acres and Sanford and Son. Funny how I can relate to both now, using my T-Rex arm to catch flies with my vacuum attachment while simultaneously watching my husband cut the grass. And that, folks, is what we call serendipity.
Robin Swoboda’s column runs every other week. Contact her at Robinswoboda@outlook.com.