My Life As A Hobby

  My father was not a patient man. To him, patience was a four-letter word. Our family is full of stores about Dad refusing to wait in line. I can’t even imagine what he would’ve been like at the Magic Kingdom. He played a lot of golf - quickly. His route to work changed daily because he had timed every traffic light and knew how long they held, so he could make a fast  turn or two and avoid waiting those extra twenty seconds.  Part of our annual vacation trip to Panama City was how fast he could drive from our house to the hotel. It was critically important to “make good time”.  So why a man with no patience and a quick temper decided to give me my first driving lesson is one of the great unsolved mysteries of the 20th century.  Psychologists say that memories formed under the influence of trauma   are those that are those that we never forget. I’m sure that’s why I remember this day clearly.  It wasn’t a Hallmark moment.  Dad and I were coming back from the playing golf, which was a

  I picked up an old rotary lawnmower at a garage sale the other day. Why? I have no idea. I guess I don’t have enough junk in my basement to be considered a hoarder - yet. In any case, the moment I saw it, I flashed back to those sweaty days of summer when I was a kid. Maybe that’s why I bought the thing.  Some of you might not be familiar with how this machine operates.  The power to propel the mower and cut the grass comes doesn’t come from a combustion engine; instead, it’s the arms and legs of the operator.  And you didn’t just push the mower and get a row of fresh cut lawn. Oh no - instead you had to thrust the mower back and forth repeatedly so the rotary blades would spin fast enough to actually mow the grass. In summer, this made for a hot, torturous workout. My father tried to justify making me mow the lawn because, according to him, it would help me get in shape for football.  So would swimming, Dad.   One red-letter day in my young life, Dad brought home a brand-new