"Sometimes, there just aren't enough rocks" Forrest said to Jennie.
Well, Forrest should have sent Jennie to my house where the rocks mate and produce offspring faster than the lawnmower can get rid of them. Just when I think there is not another rock left on the planet, Hubby finds a brand new generation holed up like squatters on our lawn. Each time I think he has mowed over and slung the last surviving rock into the next county, he discovers a new batch.
I swear I'm not making this up; the man has mutilated nine lawnmowers in the eight years we have been married. Although we live in a small town in Tennessee where we are relatively safe from the tropical Alphabet of Names, one would think that Spring signals the beginning of hurricane season in our neighborhood. At the first sign of green grass the neighbors immediately begin nailing plywood over their windows. Reports of Hubby's intent to mow are announced on the six o'clock news. Sometimes they interrupt the regularly scheduled programing for a lawnmower alert.
The local weather forecast goes something like this:
"Expect partly cloudy skies this evening, with a twenty percent chance of rain by morning. Northwest winds 10 mph or less. Temperatures will be in the low to mid sixties and Mr. Hubby will be mowing his lawn this evening. We strongly urge all the folks in that area to be on the alert. At the first sound of a lawnmower, seek shelter in a basement or a closet. Stay tuned to this station in the event of an emergency evacuation."
These aren't all little tiny pebbles either; most of them are full grown rocks. And hubby never misses a single one. He manages to hit each one at least twice. Once on the forward sweep and again on the backward drag. When he starts mowing, it sounds like a rock crusher in a quarry. On the few times I go outside to help him, I wear goggles and a helmet. Listen, I might look dumb walking around in hundred-degree temperatures wearing this garb, but I learned my lesson after the first three trips to the ER for stitches. I still suffer from brain damage.
Motorists won't even drive by the house if they spot him behind the mower; they turn around and go back the way they came. Children scream and run for their houses. The dogs cower under the front porch and the cattle kneel in the fields in an attempt to dodge the sparks and the rocks flying from beneath the wheels of the roaring machine pushed by a madman with no shirt at a speed of thirty-five miles per hour.
When it's finally safe to go outside again, I walk around the house and survey the carnage. I count the broken windows and the holes in the siding. The house looks like the aftermath of a drive-by shooting. I point out the shattered panes in the bay window. Hubby shrugs and reminds me that the window needed replacing anyway...after all it's three month old. I just smile and nod. I can't stay mad at him, and besides he just looks so cute in those cowboy boots and shorts. He assures me he will pick up a replacement window on his way to get a new lawnmower.
I heave a sigh of relief that mowing season will soon be over. Then I remember the leaf blower he bought last winter. I run to the garage and read the operating instructions on the box. It reads: Precaución: Motor de gran alcance. Utilice el cuidado extremo al trabajar en un área que contenga rocas
When translated to English, could this mean: Warning. High velocity. Use with extreme caution in rocky areas?
Maybe I should phone the manufacturer. Maybe I'd better warn the neighbors. I have a headache. Did I mention I suffer from brain damage...
Here ya go 
