The Territorial

Earl wasn’t a man who rushed things. In fact, his wife, Betty, liked to say he moved through life like a turtle on vacation. Earl figured that was fine, since he’d never seen a turtle die from stress.

One fine Saturday morning, he decided it was time to mow the yard, a task he’d been putting off since Tuesday, which, truth be told, was when he’d put it off from the previous Friday. The grass had grown tall enough to wave in the breeze like a green ocean, and the neighborhood kids were starting to wonder if maybe they could hide in it during games of tag.

Earl stood in the driveway, hands on his hips, surveying his little kingdom. The mower sat in the shed, waiting, like a faithful steed unridden for far too long.

He gave it a nod of respect and went to fetch it. When he yanked it out into the sunlight, he noticed the gas can sitting beside it, empty, of course.

He tapped it with his boot and sighed the kind of sigh that said, “My day’s about to get longer than I planned.”

Now, Betty had taken the truck to town, and Earl’s old pickup hadn’t started since last summer. But he wasn’t a man to be deterred by inconveniences, so he grabbed the gas can, slung it into his rusty wheelbarrow, and started down the road toward Jenkins’ Hardware.

He must’ve made quite a sight, straw hat, suspenders, and a wheelbarrow rattling along like a one-sided parade. Folks waved from porches, and Mrs. Dodd called out, “You moving, Earl?”

“No ma’am,” Earl hollered back. “Just fueling up for battle.”

By the time he got to Jenkins’, he’d been passed by three cars, a bicycle, and one particularly smug jogger. Inside the store, young Tommy Jenkins, who was neither young nor particularly bright, grinned when he saw Earl.

“Mowing day, huh?” Tommy said.

“Looks that way,” Earl replied. “Unless I find a sale on artificial turf.”

Tommy chuckled, filled the can, and handed it over. “Don’t forget to check your oil this time. Last time that mower sounded like a chain-smoking cat.”

Earl thanked him, wheeled his prize back home, and poured the gas like a surgeon, slow and steady. He gave the mower one good pull, then another, then a few more for good measure. On the eighth pull, it sputtered to life, coughing out a small cloud of blue smoke that drifted toward Betty’s begonias.

“Smells like summer,” Earl muttered, easing into the first row.

It was halfway through the back yard when Betty came out, iced tea in hand, watching him like he was performing a delicate experiment.

“Did you check the oil?” she asked over the roar.

Earl cut the engine and wiped his brow. “Course I did.”

“Good,” she said. “’Cause last time, it sounded like a chain-smoking cat.”

He squinted at her. “You and Tommy been talking?”

She just smiled, handed him the tea, and went back inside.

When done, Earl stood there admiring his handiwork, the grass even, the lines straight mostly, and the mower still in one piece. He felt that quiet satisfaction that comes from finishing something you’d rather not have started in the first place.

Later, sitting on the porch swing, he looked at his freshly cut yard in the evening light. He took a sip of iced tea and thought maybe tomorrow he’d trim the hedges.

Then again, turtles don’t rush.