Riding the mowers

When I was eight years old, my grandpa sent my cousins and I out to mow the grass. He had two riding lawn mowers, which was super exciting because I don't think we even had a push mower in California! It was my turn to mow, and I was doing great, going round the trees, up and down the backyard. Then something happened. My cousin yelled at me. I can't remember what it was about, but I do remember turning around to look at him so I could figure out why he was yelling. Number one rule of riding a lawn mower? Watch where you are going. Next thing I knew, the mower was leaning a bit sideways on a hill, heading straight for the pig pen. I got up a little embarrassed and with a big bruise on my leg.  I was pretty sure I did not want to ride the mower anymore.

Everyone helps mow on the farm.

1991 - cousins

1967 - Grandma and Great-Grandma

1981 - cousin

1980 - aunt

The never-ending chore!  With as much grass as we've got here, I don't have the option of not riding a lawn mower, and anyone with legs long enough to reach gets to help mow. We warned the kids that moving to the farm meant chores and true to our word, we weren't here a week when we put them to work mowing the front yard.

 

Since the kids did such a spectacular job, I thought maybe I could handle another go round. So back on the riding mower I climbed last week. I put on my flip flops, got a quick lesson from the hubby and off I went.

I came back a little dirty.  Maybe hubby is right, I shouldn't wear my flip flops for everything?  Nah...