Yeah. Lights will be low. Thanks Betsy for the idea. It’s time to be quiet and groovy

When: Monday nite 8/30, 7:30pm EDT.
(“doors” open at 7 for community hang) -

Where: https://youtu.be/GlHhryq4Hz4

Who gets 10%: MIRA - Massachusetts Immigrant & Refugee Advocacy Coalition https://miracoalition.org  
They work to protect and support the most vulnerable, those at risk of deportation, and strive to expand opportunities for all foreign-born people and their children, so they can make the most of their talent and labor. A core part of their mission is to identify and remove barriers to integration, working with local and state leaders as well as nonprofits and businesses to craft more inclusive policies that benefit the entire community.

$$: http://paypal.me/vancevancevance  or
https://venmo.com/vancevancevance  or
a check to VanceFunder P.O. Box 17,
Arlington, MA 02476 for this web-groovery.
Pay or not. Up to you. Let’s stay connected.

This week’s pajamas: post heatwave non-flannel

I teach and coach stuff.

Good Good Man - the CD - streaming all over, even get one from me

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THE LAWNMOWER

My partner is a habitat gardener. What looks to be unkempt and wild to the uninitiated is actually home to indigenous plant species and their pollinators, inevitably maddening creatures that eat the most visually stunning of the garden’s production, and wintertime unruly leftover bramble that only diehard natural gardeners see as beneficial. The reward is some of the most beautiful flowering things for 2- 5/8 seasons, all of which really do come from this general area, and a little world saving via not promulgating non-native or invasive species.

But that’s not what this post is about. It’s about our lawnmowers and how we have never bought one. See, this style of gardening, to her, means that everything is garden, and all that need be mowed is the occasional path. So we have been gifted lawnmowers by neighbors that move to condos, neighbors who die, and such. One lawnmower given to us, I’ll call him Ralph, was rusting out in parts of the body but the motor, a Briggs & Stratton, worked just fine. I knew Ralph should have a proper tuneup even for the three or four paths that would get mowed. But the place on Ralph's fuselage (did I just call the lawnmower body a “fuselage"? Lord…) where the right front wheel attached had rotted away, and this 3-wheeled mower looked like that 3-legged neighborhood dog that nobody messed with. You know that dog.

Off I went to the hardware store for bolts, nuts, lockwashers and whatever it took to re-mount this wheel. I found an old towel rack in the basement, and one of the wall mounting flanges was wide enough to be screwed onto Ralph's fuselage through its 4 holes. Drilled out the flange. Big 5/8” bolt for a new axle. On went the wheel. Off went Ralph to the Local Lawnmower Tune-up Place.

The owner of this place, who checked me in after I’d lifted Ralph out of the station wagon and wheeled him in, was of the surliest, crustiest, Old White Men (see the song) you ever might meet.

“Tune up?”

“Yessir”, I stuttered.

He looked at me through tired slit eyes. Looked at Ralph. Back at me. Back at Ralph. I started to babble about the towel rack, the 5/8” bolt, garden paths, how I figured Ralph was worth saving because of the Briggs motor, lock washers. I waited for judgements like “Get this piece of crap outta here.” Or “Just get a reconditioned used one - I have them over here”. His mouth got a little longer on one side, maybe just barely mistakable for a smile as he reached for the work slip.

“Want a job?”