I Was Killed To Death By My Mailbox.

I mowed the yard last evening, but every time I mow past our mailbox I'm reminded of the time the mailbox killed me to death... from the seat of the lawnmower. It happened a few years ago when the current mower was brand spanky new and I wasn't used to it and it's new fangled transmission. It's a little long reading, but it's worth it.


Like I said, the mower was brand new, I'd hardly mowed with it at all, but that day I went to the shed, get on it and head down the driveway, engage the blades, mow about 30 feet up to the mailbox. Around the base of the mailbox are Iris's we've planted there and I thought "time to mow them off for the fall" so I start edging around the mailbox post, back and forth, getting as close as possible cause heaven forbid if I have to actually get the weed whacker out and trim it by hand. So I've worked my way around to the mailbox side of the post and trying to get every last Iris I ease under the mailbox, leaning waaaayyyy back on the seat of the tractor, stopping with the mailbox wedged against my belly.

Lets pause right here for a moment. Imagine me frozen in this position while I describe to you how the transmission on our John Deere mower works. Okay? Okay... first there is no hand operated gear shift, like my old mower had, and the transmission works by pressing down on a pedal with the toe of your right foot to go forward, and then behind that is another pedal that you press down on to go in reverse. It's a hydrostatic transmission, which means the farther down you press the pedal, the faster the mower travels, just like a sewing machine. Got that?

Okay, now lets take a look at my once again, frozen in time, wedged belly deep under our mail box situation. Extended in the position that I'm in I tap on the pedal with the tippy toe of my stretched out right foot on the pedal that my brain says "reverse". See, the thing is I've got these short stumpy legs, very deceptive and dishonest legs, because what I've got my toe on is the forward pedal.

Alright now, lets unfreeze that action shot as I poke my toe down on that forward pedal. Slooowwwwlllyyyy I start to wedge myself tighter and tighter against the mailbox while my brain is screaming "JACE YOU BOOB! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING? YOU'RE GONNA KILL US ALL!!!!" another part of my brain makes my right foot which is now stretched and extended even further beyond it's good judgment, move to the back pedal to get me and my brain (and belly meat) out of this situation that it's in. But my foot, not having a brain of it's own, just randomly stabs at anything on the floorboard that is pedal-like, and of course just makes the mower go forward even faster. Imagine if you can a huge wringer washing machine made up of mailboxes and lawnmowers, and you've just stuck your necktie into it....

The next few moments are mostly a blur as a million thoughts are going thru my now almost non-functioning brain stem. I can see the mailbox approaching my head and I try to move my head to the side as the mailbox is putting a pleat in my brand new t-shirt and I'm thinking "oh no! My brand new t-shirt! But then in the next split second I'm thinking "Hello Grandpa, I thought you'd passed away" Somehow it misses my punkin, but not quite my left hand, and see... that's the funny thing 'cause I don't remember that part at all. I know it happened 'cause it was all sore and bloody and scuffed all over the back of it, I've just blocked out that part I think to keep my brain from having nightmares about this whole little episode.

When the horror finally stops, I'm sitting in the middle of the highway, totally extended over the back of the seat and fender of the mower, feeling like a big ol' piece of pizza dough after going thru that cool rolling machine at Pizza Hut. Only this wasn't that cool... or profitable. I'm trying to gather my wits and thinking "hmmm I've mowed about 30 feet now, that's enough for today" and I head to the house. You KNOW who is there at the door to meet me. Yes, it was Sally, God love the woman, right there to offer support, sympathy and not even a little bit stifled laughter. Then Jake comes walking in... This is when the hilarity of my pain really kicks in. THEN... THEN... our pastor drops by. She is, in no time at all, dabbing tears away from her eyes as I'm sure she must have been totally tore up at my pain and misfortune and is praising Jesus that she doesn't have to come up with a funeral sermon for me that day.

Sore, scabby, creased, and beaten... sounds like the chorus to a country song. Yeah I think about this every time I mow around my mailbox.







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