The lawnmower is broken, so we headed into Columbus today to visit with our nephew and his lovely bride-to-be.

Actually, it’s not that cause-and-effect. We would visit our nephew and his lovely bride-to-be whether the mower was working or not. But we’re at that point in the season when we keep a closer watch on the skies and hope against all odds that it rains during the week while we’re at work. When a dry Saturday rolls around in mid-spring, it sometimes means making hard but understandable choices between time spent with family or being up to our knees is mature compost, a fistful of seed packets tucked into the back pocket of our jeans. A sunny weekend on the land is worth it’s weight in the future carrots we’d like to plant without having to dodge the downpours. In our early days here, we’d invite those beloved family members to come spend the day (we simply imagined them being near, honest. It wasn’t some covert attempt to con them into giving us free labor) and soon they’d be gloved and walking behind us with armfuls of straw to cover the tender ankles of our fifty-some tomato seedlings. We consider it the pinnacle of good fortune and grace that they still agree to come visit us at all.

That’s how it is when you take on a section of acreage miles away from concrete and convenience. The minute we step outside, there’s a project in every direction, and each one is jockeying for that position at the top of the list. We could almost hear the grass begging for a haircut, but the combination of rain and weariness at the end of our respective work days kept the mower dormant in the barn all week. Patrick grew restless seeing the grass getting taller until he finally had the time and energy to start the mower Friday night and nothing happened. After an hour’s worth of mechanical attempts, restlessness turned into outright audible frustration (still catches me off guard how sound travels across the acreage here. A well-placed bit of profanity moves easily up the slope and around the back of the house when I’m taking the laundry off the line) until it was clear the repair was beyond his reach. Might as well pack the car for the market, then, and be grateful for an evening spent together on the couch.

The invitation to spend Sunday afternoon with Robbie and Collin was offered earlier last week and with such enthusiasm, it was impossible to resist. This would be yet another fully vaccinated and unmasked encounter with two people we love and missed sorely these past fourteen months, and if that wasn’t enough, we’d be treated to a delicious meal from the restaurant they’d chosen to cater the wedding reception. We drove into town and opted for carryout orders to take back to their apartment. Since the place was close, we walked through the neighborhood to pick them up.

Both Patrick and I knew the area well, having each lived there in our pre married-to-each-other lives. The slate sidewalks had shifted over time (real toe-stubbers if you’re not paying attention and near impossible to navigate on a bicycle), and the narrow brick streets rumbled beneath the tires of passing cars as we walked past closely-packed houses with barely two feet of space between them. A gorgeous and varied array of irises stood proudly in front yards, their long ruffled-edge petals fluttering in a sun-warmed breeze. One young man was taking advantage of both the sun and the slope of grass in front of his house, using it in place of a bench to press two twenty-pound weights over his head and shoulders while his roommate swept grass clippings from the path leading up to their door. I looked over my shoulder at Patrick, walking behind Collin and me, and caught his eye. Don’t worry, honey. We’ll be raking up grass clippings of our own soon. I promise.

A flood of pleasant memories washed over me as we made our way back to the apartment with our food, taking a different route through alleys and back streets that butted up against the boundaries of the park where I used to ride my bike most mornings. I’d log fifty miles round trip on a path that touched the banks of a river and dripped buckeyes from the trees in the fall. It all came rushing back, that time in my young adulthood when being on my own was precisely what I preferred and I happily paid the bills that sealed my independent way of life. Looking back, I remember feeling content in my circumstance and unable to imagine making any sort of serious commitment to someone else (of course, meeting Patrick was a variable I’d not factored into my future as a happy single person. Let me state freely and with great joy: I have no regrets). Now here I was walking beside my beloved of nearly twenty-eight years, behind two young ones about to step into a similar understanding with each other, in a setting that held different memories and images for each of us. I let the significance of the moment sink in and grow roots as deep as the ones beneath the oak trees that towered over our heads, their freshly unfurled leaves rustling and whispering promises of a cheerful summer filled with more reunions, more hugs and more walks in familiar places.

A broken lawnmower’s unexpected gift to us…

(A word about the sign in the photo that accompanies this reflection—Collin made sure we stopped to read it, filling in details about when it was first posted and how the good residents of the neighborhood wanted simply to record this Big Squirrel’s activity. No hunting expedition resulting in a trophy stuffed and mounted on someone’s mantle. Just a gentle and friendly acknowledgement of this relative’s presence among them. I call that good form and feel confident that if we ever did need to return to a more urban setting, I’d feel safe coming back here and living out my remaining days in the company of such kind and curious hearts. Sometimes, you can go home again).