Moan-day by C.L. Beck

© C.L. Beck, 2008
(Keywords: Moan, Moan-day, Monday, weeds, gardening, flowers, rose, rose bushes, humor, funny, smile, C.L. Beck, writer, YourLDSNeighborhood.com)

Monday is misnamed. It should be called Moan-day. Why? Because if anything’s going to go wrong, you can bet it’ll happen on that day.

On this particular Moan-day, it all started with gargantuan weeds in the driveway, near our front sidewalk. I dusted the cobwebs off the old weed-eater, pleaded with it to start and begged it to run long enough to whack everything ... including the grass in the rose bed.

It started. Thirty seconds later, the line disappeared. I spent 45 minutes—with the hot sun beating on my head and sweat dripping down my neck—trying to figure out how to pop the spool out to put in new line.

Finally, I realized it wasn’t going to happen and decided to trim the deadwood in the rose bushes—then tackle the grass and weeds by hand. I got a few of the dead branches into the wheelbarrow when ... weird … there weren’t any sounds coming from the backyard.

That meant something was up with our dog, Corky.

I looked all around. No Corky anywhere, but there were a couple of dogs down the street, barking like crazy.

Ah-ha! The Corky Monster had run away. I found him at the end of the block, visiting the barking dogs. He didn’t have a collar on, but it didn’t matter because I didn’t have a leash. I hefted the big chub against my shoulder and trudged home.

After putting him in the yard, it was back to the rose bed. The sun blazed in the sky, my hair plastered itself to my head and my eyes stung from sweat trickling into them. Walking past the sprinkler valve next to the roses, I noticed something suspicious—the valve box was overflowing with water.

A leak. No wonder the lawn had dry spots and the weeds in the driveway were thriving. I schlepped to the garage, got the sprinkling system key and turned the water off.

By now I had a wheelbarrow with dead branches at one end of the sidewalk, a weed-whacker and 100 foot extension cord at the other end, two valve box lids laying on the lawn, and the sprinkler key sticking straight up out of the ground. My yard looked like I was recovering from Hurricane Katrina.

I realized I hadn’t gotten much of anything done. My stomach growled for breakfast. I was ready for a shower. Or maybe a nap. I figured I could make it easy on myself and nap while I showered. But then the weeding wouldn't get done.

In the middle of all that thinking, a sound seeped into my brain. Actually, it was more like no sound. Corky wasn’t barking.

I plodded to the rear and found him ready to dash through a partially open gate at the end of the yard. So that’s how he got out before!

Then it was back to the valve box to bail water. The sun rose higher in the sky. It was 11:00 a.m. and all I’d accomplished was to get hot and sweaty.

After looking the situation over, I decided to give the weed-eater one more try. Into the house I went to call the weed-whacker people. The gal there didn’t have a clue how to get the spool out. My weed-eater was older than her mother.

I finally saw a little doohickey on the weed-whacker’s cover. One push and ta-da, the housing popped free.

The spool had 18 inches of tangled line. I fed some through, put it back together and started it whirring. Thirty seconds later, the line disappeared. I took it apart, pulled more line and started it up. Thirty seconds later? No line again … that weed-eater hated me.

With all the stopping and starting, the machine ran for a total of five minutes. During that time I managed to weed-whack my bare ankles, chop off the heads of the roses and cut three weeds.
By then it was noon. The heat had sizzled what was left of my brain.

Putting everything away, I decided I was finished with weeding for the year—maybe for the century. I headed inside. Forget that longed-for shower of hours ago; I was taking a nap—and sleeping straight through the rest of Moan-day.

What's playing on my radio: Crimson and Clover by Tommy James and the Shondells.

What's playing on my TV: Nothing.
What's playing in my head: Same as what's on the radio.

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