By Simon Hole
In spite of how strange it must look, I turn off the mower and stand in the middle of the lawn with my eyes closed.
The smell of grass clippings transports me. I’m ten years old again, walking through my father’s field. The sweat that drips into my eyes is not from pushing a mower, but from lifting and throwing bales of hay under a blazing June sun.
Haying seemed such hard work at the time. Today I mow the lawn again. Not because the grass is all that tall, but so I might go back, if only for a moment.
Very evocative. It takes me back to my Grandad’s smallholding in Sussex.
Oh, my, I do like this one. Well-told, and it resonates deeply.
thanks, Tony. Interesting how the sense of smell is so closely tied to memories.
Great story. I like the glimpse of this man’s past and all the emotions captured therein.
Beautiful use of the senses.
almost like you were a writer.
Thanks, Jo. Funny seeing you here.
Brings back memories of Saturday mornings–when I went around the neighborhood looking for enough lawns to mow to get into the Saturday afternoon movies! Great job, Simon