Innocent Mint by Tommia Wright

One of the habits of summer on those rare days of sun (and in this corner of the states, the average sightings of the sphere are six or seven for the season) is to mow the lawn. Granted, there are a few things to consider in cutting the grass down to size.

 

One – driving a lawn mower is about as dangerous as driving a car, license or no. Mole holes are to lawns as potholes are to the road. Think the ride’s going to a be a smooth one and then there’s a bump here, a jolt there and a possible ‘tossing off of the mower.’

 

Two – if one isn’t properly paying attention to the boundaries supposedly set (driving in a straight line given bumpy conditions – a kindergartener has better luck with straight lines playing with scissors than I do with those odds, but I digress) then there could be ‘victims’ to be had. I confess – I minced the mint. Granted, it made the later passing of that patch of grass rather pleasant, the longing for a cool glass of iced herbal tea. But the guilt of the pulverizing of the peppermint made me mindful to try to do better rounding the next corner (which was significantly cut, but again I digress.)