Place Narrative
...f the neighborhood, ready to place every blade of grass under its submission. In my dream this massive machine and I connected in some unseen and unheard communication. We understood each other. We both knew that our destinies would have to be fulfilled. I jumped astride the tractor. Settling down onto the vinyl seat, I felt the mower lurch as I sat. I knew what it wanted--it wanted to ride. I punched down on the clutch pedal and turned the silver ignition key. The machine roared into life. The motor growled and spat forth blue gray smoke, adding the sent of petroleum products to the concrete dust and oil smell of the garage. Carefully, I brought the clutch up, feeling the power of the motor trying to catch the gears and speed forward into the street. Finally, I released all pressure on the clutch and the tractor took off, high-tailing it out of the garage and into the neighborhood. Down went the blade attachment, set at the optimum cutting level. The machine and I looped though the development’s yards, slaying the grass monsters as though I were the white knight defeating the dragon while astride his trusty steed. The slaughter of vegetation left a trail of green victims, lying in piles with their fallen comrades, waiting for the inevitable mulching. We were conquering the errant blades of grass that dared to grow higher than necessary, that hid chickweed, crab grass, and stickers. We plowed over the neighborhood, but we knew that our job was not done. We had not yet begun to fight. (My apologies of John Paul Jones.) Knowing that we had accomplished all that we could in the neighborhood, the mower began to pull toward the open highway. I tried to contain its hunger, twisting the hard black plastic steering wheel toward the waiting garage, but I could not wrench the wheel away from its steely grip. I was helpless--a victim of this dominating mechanical power. I sat, helpless and alone, as the machine moved onto the litter-strewn shoulder of the highway, heading south and, perhaps, into oblivion. However, all was not lost. As we headed into Virginia, once again I lowered the whirling metal blades and watch the spiral of green fly like verdant arrows from the cutting chute. Behind us lay a path, neatly mown, that delineated our travels from the garage to Virginia’s rolling hills. I felt like a jungle explorer, cutting a path through the wild jungle, making passage easier for those who venture forth behind me. Virginia was not to be our final destination. No, in my dream there was no final destination. The lawn tractor and I were to stay together, like Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, tilting at the windmills of grass. Yes, we kept going, cutting a never ending swath of grass throughout America. The rumbling voice of the lawn mower echoed throughout rocky hills of Tennessee. I sat, numbed, and watched brilliant fiery-fingered sunsets over the hills and hollows of Kentucky. We continued into nights, watching the moon change from a brilliant orange globe that loomed over us until it resembled nothing less than a silver toenail. We...