Driving up the mountain road, I trail a red Ford pickup hauling an old John Deere mower. Both the truck and the mower have seen better days by far, but the colors of them – the truck deep red, the mower that unmistakeable John Deere green – are bright and cheerful. The truck’s tailgate is lowered to accommodate the mower, which I can see is held loosely place by a rusty chain strung from bed rail to bed rail. None of those fancy ratchet straps I’m so fond of, the ones that always end up in knotted piles on the floor of my truck. The Ford rattles over the washboards, and the mower wags back and forth. An empty bottle shoots off the lip of the lowered tailgate, bounces into the road, and miraculously doesn’t break. I have the passing thought that I should stop to retrieve it, but I don’t. I’m not in the mood to deal with someone else’s trash.
Going over the top of the mountain, I see that the leaves are beginning to change, and for the first time this summer, I have the sense that another season is imminent, and I’m suddenly awash in all the things I still need to do. Finish the new hearth for the woodstove. Finish siding the barn. Replace the rotting boards on the paddock fence. Change the hydraulic fluid in the tractor. And on it goes, seemingly without end, a list I already know will have to be reconsidered, reprioritized, reordered, the tasks that address heat and the containment of livestock moved higher, above those relating to cosmetics and convenience.
And so as I follow the truck and mower through the curves on the west side of the mountain, that is exactly what I’m doing – reconsidering, reordering, reprioritizing – until by the time we hit the flats, I’ve got the list pared down to nearly nothing, a trifling weekend or two’s worth of work (if that), and I’m already getting all sorts of ideas about what I’m going to do with my free time.
I’ve shared this one before, I think. But it’s always worth another listen.