Mowing the Lawn
My father died when I was young. Just shy of my thirteenth birthday.
An unusual way to begin a post about mowing the lawn yes?
Bare with me…
My dad Keith was a farmer, and before he succumbed to cancer, he was fit.
As in a “run four kilometres each morning before he began a physical day on the farm” fit.
There is a beautiful photograph of him at my mum’s.
He is in his prime, I’m guessing mid forties, mowing the lawn.
He is closely followed by my brother, dutifully pushing his own red plastic mower.
My dad is shirtless and wearing cotton shorts. He’s tanned and his torso is sculpted into a bronze six pack.
This is how he died in my mind.
Not the bloated, bald, steroid pumped man who quietly slipped away from cancer in 1984.
He never had the opportunity to become an embarrassment to a cool kid teenager questioning my first boyfriend’s intentions.
He never nagged me to clean my room.
Never berated me for bringing the family car home short of petrol.
He lives on as the mystical illusion a young child holds when their parents shine in a golden hue.
Keepers of the knowledge of the world.
Impervious to the reality dawning on a teen.
It also meant he never walked me down the aisle for my wedding.
He never held his grandchildren on his lap.
He never lived to see me farm.
He is indelibly etched in my memory as that handsome man mowing the lawn.
This week’s content might be slightly left of centre to the farming newsletter you may have signed up to.
But the story is mine.
And I, like my father Keith, am a farmer.
One with regeneration at my core.
Leaving behind my beloved Lanespark (Magners Farm’s home in Co. Tipperary) in the care of Billy, while our children finish school, I feel so lucky to be staying on this beautiful farm in Australia.
Our cottage sits amongst massive eucalyptus trees, nestled gently into the landscape. A running creek flows nearby.
The house yard is close to an acre.
With “reduce, reuse, recycle” mantra echoing in my head, I located a second hand lawn mower from a nearby town.
The seller of the lawnmower invited me through their house to the backyard where the mower sat. Beyond was a collection of at least twenty hens.
My heart skipped a beat. Frizzle chickens with buzzed up feathers. Polish hens with bouffant hair do’s.
So then, my straight forward transaction evolved into a lengthy discussion on all matter of things hen.
Kindred spirits drawn together in conversation.
Eventually I left.
With my new old lawn mower.
Which I brought home in the back of the car, unloaded and proceeded to mow the lawn.
Mindless, physical, satisfying activity.
It took me a little over an hour.
Which clocked up 10,000 steps.
Which made my naggy watch happy.
Which also made me think of my dad in that eternally healthy, glowing, hero state.
And I was grateful.
And the lawn looks lovely
.
Touching memories, heartwarming read.
Thank you xx
Thank you for sharing this precious and heartbreaking memory.