power and energy

Deer in the field. Crows on the crooked steeple. Birds in the leafy branches of the cemetery’s big maple tree. This simple life. Where today I’ll mow the lawn. Use the old green push mower that I found in the basement of the church when I moved here three years ago. A solid machine. Powered by a Briggs & Stratton. One that asks little of me. A bit of oil. Fresh gas. A clean spark plug. And always, it’s ready to run and to remind me of the day Dad brought an old Briggs & Stratton to the side door of Thunder Bay Junior High School. For me to disassemble and reassemble. For a project in my Power and Energy class.

Third hour with a bunch of burnouts and jocks. Led by Mr. Leeland. A short man with Popeye forearms who was filled with stifled frustrations, but guided by good intentions. His goal? To show these kids something they could use in this life. How to follow directions. Take things apart. Put them back together. And do it again. Because he knew how it would turn out. That most of us would never stray far from home. And we would never reach any higher than our parents did. There would be no climbing of the social ladder. No corporate executives. Genetic scientists. Or astronauts. We boys would grow into men’s bodies, but we would never change. We’d become bigger boys. Obsessed with Power and Energy. Being stronger and faster. But we would never have enough drive, ambition, or heart to know how to truly use any of it. The best Mr. Leeland could do was prepare us for a life of fixing things that he knew would be broken.

Dad knew this too when he brought me that small engine. In a heavy duty cardboard box. Covered with an oily rag. When he let me wrestle it into the school all by myself.

“I got it,” I said, stumbling up the steps and fumbling with the door knob.
“Oh, I know you do,” he said. “I know.”

And he smiled and waved as he drove away. And I walked inside. To a workshop table. To learn how to take it apart. And to put it together again.

I will think of that today. As I push along the old green machine. Mow diagonal rows. Until the lawn is tidy. Neat and trim. So people can visit. Pass by. Say to themselves, Now here is a man that really knows how to keep a place up! And I will feel I’ve accomplished something. As I retreat behind walls. Shower away the smells of another day that’s passed. The fresh cut grass. Exhaust fumes. Gas. And I will go to bed with some artificial peace. Balance in the darkness. At the edge of sleep. Knowing deep down that I haven’t done a thing.

Tomorrow I’ll wake. Refreshed, or haunted by dreams. And I’ll go downstairs. To the coffee pot. Pour in the water. Put in the grounds. Turn it on. And stand in the kitchen. To lean on the sink. Stare at the lawn, the trees, the old crooked steeple, and I’ll try to be happy because I’ve been given a great gift. Another day. To get through. To get things done. To make it okay.

~ K.J.