A Saturday in August

It rained last night and should again this evening so I want to get all of the mowing done before then. As noted before (often) Bill won't let me use his riding mower because I am irresponsible, and the weed-eaters are worn out, so now I use a push mower on the sides of the berm. As also noted before (often), when Bill mows, he ends up plowing the top of the berm because he refuses to raise the blade on his mower ("That grass will grow back."). Maybe, but only until you get loose with the mower again. It ends up looking terrible and wasting the work I put into making grass grow there. This morning I was mowing the entire pond area with the push mower and hoping I could finish before he could get motivated to come out and plow. The mower quit and I went to his house to get him to fix it. He didn't feel well and didn't really want to mess with it. Since I had everything done except for what is now the nicest part of the berm, and was going to have to fix the mower myself, I went in the house to get something to drink first. It seemed safe. I lounged for a little bit and sort of thought I heard a mower, but was listening to Tool and it also seemed like part of the music. When I got back to the pond, he had plowed the East side of the pond down to the dirt, chopped the ends off of a couple of hoses, and then parked his mower again. It probably took him 5 minutes. I realize that it's his yard, his pond, and his design scheme, and I should just be grateful he isn't throwing wine bottles over my fence, but hey, old dude, LIFT YOUR BLADE.