Yard Work, Gas Station Confrontations, and the High School Track Team
By mid-July, yard work begins to take on a certain intensity — driven partially by the heat, partially by guilt, and partially by the creeping sense that the neighbors are judging. The cautious edging and light weeding of spring has given way to what can only be described as horticultural warfare. Saturdays now involve sweating through gloves and sunscreen, trying to tame whatever our lawns have become while dodging the unforgiving midday sun. More than a few of us have started waiting until after 9 PM to mow — not because we enjoy push-mowing by twilight (which, for the record, is far less romantic than it sounds), but because it’s the first time the air doesn’t feel like hot gravy. Despite the siren call of Protestant industriousness, we can’t help but feel a special kind of envy for those in townhomes and condos, watching from shaded balconies as we trudge uphill with hedge trimmers like a grass-stained infantry.
DIY Days
These days, if you’re not in the yard, you’re probably under the sink. Or above the ceiling. Or halfway through a home repair that began with optimism and a trip to Lowe’s and ended with gauze and regret. With prices still climbing like our collective blood pressure, many have turned to YouTube and DIY forums, bravely soldering, spackling, and rewiring things they probably shouldn’t. The dedication is admirable. The outcomes are… mixed.
Eventually, after enough pinched fingers and suspicious burns, most of us cave and call in a professional — which has become a challenge in and of itself. Fewer companies answer the phone these days, and fewer still return your semi-desperate voicemails. And when someone does show up, they often bring with them a fresh new crisis: they are impossibly young. The nice young man who came to bid on some repairs last week looked like he had just come from AP Chemistry. When he called us “sir” and asked about the history of the home, we briefly considered offering him a hardtack ration and our best tales from the front lines of the Spanish-American War. Unfortunately, our hands were too sore to reach into our dusty old handbags.
Out of Gas
Even the gas station has become a stage for summer’s rising tensions. We witnessed a minor altercation this week: one man, having just finished fueling, rolled down his window and shouted an impressive stream of profanity at another man who appeared to have done… nothing. The second man responded with a shrug and a look that said, “Was that for me or do you just do that now?”
These are hot, expensive days — full of fuming strangers in places that are already flammable. And while we understand the occasional hothead, we’d prefer they not detonate at a gas station. Being blown sky-high may finally be cheaper than a family vacation, but it’s terrible for your schedule.
Marathon Men
Elsewhere on the sidewalks, the local high school’s track team has begun its early morning training runs — waves of teenage boys charging down neighborhood roads like caffeinated gazelles. There’s something infectious about their energy: arms pumping, feet flying, one of them even motioning to passing cars for celebratory honks. Most drivers, lost in their phones or deep in a true-crime podcast, barely notice. Or perhaps they assume he’s simply flailing in the youthful exuberance of being seventeen.
Their jogs are light and full of promise. Ours — when they happen — are heavy, reluctant, and accompanied by a wheeze that’s medically suspicious. They are bounding into the future. We are just trying not to lose a toenail.