I was so excited about passing it to you, as a result, a little word reversal took place, in error.
My heart was in the right place.
By the time you read this, the weather will have improved. I refuse to allow this cold snap to make me think otherwise. We are edging closer to springtime.
We plan to plant a garden again this year.
There is some nervousness concerning bugs.
This mild winter can only lead to increased numbers come warmer weather. Several are already warming up by the porch lights when the temperature is above freezing.
Last week, moles tore up the yard beneath the maple outside the kitchen window.
I have not sighted a robin, up until now.
I am already looking for a couple or more early birds to show up anytime.
Could be an abundance of bold earthworms will come up to greet them, too.
Oftentimes, I peer out of my southernmost windows toward Restlawn Cemetery. The resting place lies across the wrought iron fence from the Lynch homestead property.
I reflect back to the years that my late father, Hugh Lynch, and I were caretakers employed by the City of Brazil.
My mind runs rampant when I pull from my store all of the quality time we spent together making a game out of hard work.
Using push lawnmowers and hand clippers, we far exceeded our expectations and that of others in regard to what our team of two could accomplish.
We loved what we were doing for the living and the dead. No jobs were too big or too small.
We communicated with mom on small walkie talkies.
She would tune in around noon each workday and tell us when lunches were ready to eat.
Her noontime meals, usually the size of an evening meal and quite worth the trip through the hole in the fence.
We usually started in mid-February clearing the fence lines that surround the perimeter of the graveyard. Sometimes, my dad started little fires with wadded newspaper and a splash of kerosene to clear the clutter from the base of a stretch of fence with good results and bad.
Once, while performing that task, he set the woods on fire.
He knew how to push my panic button, and he had a way of firing me up as well. He was the boss.
If he pushed the wrong button and set up for an argument, we were the best of buddies before the day was done.
We watched the birds of springtime nest and raise their families.
We encountered snakes and toads, cats and dogs, aphids, bees and butterflies.
We made very little money those days.
Nowadays, the mowing season is handled in a different way. Companies bid for the contract.
The mowing equipment and cost of grounds care is not cheap. Detailing seems to be of lesser value.
The reason I am reminded of all of this now settles around a far-fetched dream I had last night.
I dreamt I placed a bid for the job at the old rate and was given the contract for this mowing season.
My bid was $1.60 an hour.
Paul promised to offer his services free. Everyone was smiling. I woke up before I had time to look for my dirty grass stained tennis shoes and tell Dad the good news.
Fact is, these days it is all me and mine can do to get going in the morning.
We would be late for work every day. Our go and get to it days are winding down.
Just the same, in my opinion, that was a good dream that I would visit again, if I could.
I can be reached by phone at 446-4852 or by e-mail at firstname.lastname@example.org.