The Push Mower From Hell :: Personal Narrative, Autobiographical Essay

The Push Mower From Hell "It's time to get up, son. You've got work to do today." My father's gravelly voice brought my reluctant subconscious out of the realm of its peaceful slumber. How dare he, I wondered to myself, interrupt my rest and force me awake on the most sacred of days: the Cartoon Sabbath. Still slightly disoriented, I went into the kitchen to feed myself a bowl of Cheerios and plant myself in front of a "Winnie the Pooh" rerun. I had scarcely finished my third bowl when my father returned, somewhat angered. "I believe that I told you that we were going to do some yardwork today. How about coming out and lending a hand?" I agreed meekly, owing to the fact that I had no desire to risk conflict with my father. After brushing my teeth and slapping on a tee shirt, shorts, and shoes, I trudged outside. The hot summer sun beat down heavily on the back of my neck. Because of a combination of heat and fatigue, I felt as if I were drunk. I staggered over to the riding lawnmower, relieved by the thought of being able to sit down while appeasing my parents at the same time. My brother, the impish little troll that he is, having the same idea, had already confiscated the mower for his own selfish gain. He had left for the lot next door, which was easy to cut compared to the banks that I was left with. I gave him an evil glance that shouted my disapproval of his actions and marched towards the much hated, seldom used push mower. The push mower was an angry, rust ridden, hostile beast of ill intent. I don't think anyone in my family ever expected to have to use the beast, so it became more like a family joke to see whom we could stick it to each time grass needed to be cut. It was temperamental and took at least five minutes of heavy pulling on the unforgiving cord to finally get it started. It had at one time been a self propelled mower, but the chain broke long ago, leaving a free spinning gear rotating dangerously near the operator's low appendages. The machine gave off a low threatening growl, reminding us to approach it with a certain amount of animosity, if not respect.