Fat Man's Misery

When Ross and I went up to Wisconsin to visit Grandad one summer, we were there for a pretty long time. Grandad thought up several things to do to keep us busy and interested so we wouldn't find too much trouble to get into. When he announced that we were going to a place called the Wisconsin Dells where we would take a boat tour, it sounded supremely boring to my young mind, not to mention the two and a half hour car ride to get there from Racine.
Under protest, we went along (with Grandad, you always went along in the end) and endured the long summer drive to the Wisconsin Dells. There was much talk about glaciers on the way there. Moraines, and hogback ridges, and how the geography of Wisconsin changes abruptly along the line of the furthest reach of the glaciers in the last ice age were topics of conversation. Or at least topics of monologue. In fairness, monologue leading to speculation, questions, conversation.
When we arrived, the place seemed rather touristy and gaudy, in the cigar store Indian vein, which was marginally fun, in a carnival kind of way, but didn't seem a good omen for our boat tour. When we got in the boat, it seemed slightly more interesting and kid fun, and we began to think that this outing would be at least tolerable. The weather was pleasant and we started to see some really remarkable rock formations. We saw colorful curved rock formations (formed by glacial action) and swallows nesting on rock overhangs. The trip was turning out to be quite enjoyable and fascinating. After a tour by water, the walking part of our day began.
We walked along wooden walkways, with beautiful curved sandstone walls towering above. Sometimes we'd bake in the hot summer sun, and other times rock walls would shade us from the sun and cool humid air would drift from wet sandstone, with water trickling down the rock faces. A stream was rushing by one walkway, and a waterfall sprayed us with mist. We laughed at the touristy names like Witch's Gulch, Witch's Bathtub and Cold Water Canyon. We were surprised and amazed at how cool this place was.
We were appalled to learn that a dam had been built in the early twentieth century, covering over what people had said were even more amazing rock formations. In a store or visitor's center we saw early photos and sketches of some of these sites, like Boat Cave and Bass Cave. We thought maybe we could get some scuba diving equipment and look at them all underwater, or cover one of the amphibious boats and make it into a submarine. We'd heard of glass bottomed boats in Florida, and wondered if the water was clear enough to see anything that way. We were enthusiastic converts to the wonders of the Wisconsin Dells. We imagined blowing up Kilbourn Dam so everyone would be able to see these sites again.
One of the highlights of the Wisconsin Dells trip was running ahead of Grandad to see a spot in the path labeled "Fat Man's Misery." We laughed and went ahead a ways and waited for Grandad to catch up, watching him slowly progress toward the narrowest part of the path. When he was near the spot, we saw him glance up at the "Fat Man's Misery" sign and chuckle. He had to turn sideways and inch his way through the small gap. He chuckled again as his ample belly squeezed through. We didn't say anything and we tried not to laugh.
I happened to see some H. H. Bennett Stereo Views for sale on an auction site recently. Some were of the Wisconsin Dells, which reminded me of this trip. I thought of Grandad chuckling as he squeezed through the "Fat Man's Misery" and found this old postcard for sale on another site and bought it.
The back of the card reads: Through much of COLD WATER CANYON the rock walls are very high, and the passage between them vary narrow. The narrowest point is called Fat Man's Misery.

jet

Grandad and Carolyn came to visit us when we lived in Buffalo. I was probably five years old and Ross was six or seven. I think they flew there from Racine via Milwaukee or Chicago. When they left we must have gone to the airport to see them off. I don't remember it, but we might have left the airport building, driven to an observation spot and watched for their plane to take off. That's something my dad might have enjoyed, knowing which airline they were flying on, which kind of plane it would be and which runway they'd be taking off from (if there was more than one runway in Buffalo at the time) so we could watch their plane take off and maybe wave to them. So that's the occurrence that I don't specifically remember, but what I do remember is that after that visit, every time Ross and I saw a jet flying over, we would stop what we were doing, wave and yell, "Hi Grandad and Carolyn!" No matter how high the jet was or how far away it was, we'd do that. Of course we knew that Grandad and Carolyn weren't on any of those planes, or at least I think we knew that, but we always wanted to say hi to Grandad and Carolyn, so that is what we did.

outboard

When my brother and I went up to the shack with Grandad and Uncle Bill that summer, Grandad brought along an old green outboard motor. I think it was four or five horsepower and it might have been a Johnson. Ross and I were quite excited on the day we mounted it on the back of the aluminum rowboat. Even though rowing was a more than adequate means of locomotion to get to any part of the lake, going under power was much more appealing to us as adventuresome kids. Grandad and Uncle Bill mixed the gas and oil, connected the fuel lines and got the motor started after a few adjustments. I think we motored around the lake a few times at a moderate rate with Uncle Bill at the helm. He gave us a few safety pointers about how you can't stop a boat immediately like a car or bike, how you have to watch out for branches or logs floating in the water and reminded us that the propeller protrudes into the water further than the bottom of the boat, so one must be careful when motoring in shallow water. When we returned to shore, we were given detailed instruction on how to start the motor, stop the motor, keep the fuel going while it's running, use the throttle, raise the engine if we went into shallow areas and other general operating procedures. It was then that I learned that I was not to be the captain of this vessel. My brother was a year and a half older than I, which meant that he was qualified to take the tiller, while my age relegated me to mere passengerdom. I made known my displeasure at this arbitrary decision, but to no avail. However, I wasn't about to let this disqualification ruin my fun, and I knew I might be able to revisit the issue at a later time.
When we got into the boat without Grandad and Uncle Bill, I noticed how much the bow of the boat was raised out of the water. The boat had previously been ballasted by the weight of one large and one small adult, in addition to the two kids, so it hadn't been an issue. With the lighter cargo of two kids, the relatively heavy motor caused the stern to ride low and the bow high. This condition was compounded by having the slightly older and therefor larger and heavier kid in the stern to operate the motor. We pushed off and made our first cautious run under the watchful eyes of Uncle Bill and Grandad. As soon as we started to gain speed, the bow of the boat rose up even more, frighteningly so. The bow completely blocked my view in the direction we were traveling, so I knew the captain of the boat wouldn't be able to see in that direction either. He was already slowing down, and we decided that I should move to the front seat to try to keep the bow down. This worked well enough for us to motor to the head of the lake and back at a moderate speed. We returned to the inlet by the shack and were congratulated by Grandad on having become able seamen.
We had a few chores to do, maybe stacking wood or sweeping floors, which we did as quickly as possible so we might have a chance to return to the fun of motoring around the lake. We were allowed to go back out for a short time, and we went a little bit faster this time, gently weaving back and forth across the breadth of the lake as we traversed the length. If we started going very fast the bow would rise again even with me in the front seat, which was still a bit scary, so we didn't dare go too fast on our second outing.
The next day, we had a much longer time to spend on the lake, and the fuel tank was still nearly full, so we began going a little faster, and doing a few more curves, and getting closer to shore. We'd occasionally see Grandad or Uncle Bill by the cabin as we motored by, so we felt a bit restrained by distant supervision. We came in for lunch, and had a few more chores to do before eating. I remember Grandad giving me some helpful advice about sweeping. It was something along the lines of, if you're going to do a job, you should do it well, and not just half-ass it so you can go do something fun. I think it might have been a commentary on the quality of my work on the previous day's pre-motorboating chores. This time I tried to sweep as quickly as possible without giving the appearance of doing a half-assed job. After our chores were done, we were back out on the lake. We were a bit more confident and for some reason we started spending more time at the head of the lake, which coincidentally was more difficult to see from near the cabin. We experimented with figure eights, weaving back and forth and tight curves. We occasionally made less exciting journeys to the lower part of the lake, and on one of those journeys, we noticed that our erstwhile supervisors were nowhere to be seen. Perhaps they were inside the shack and were watching from the windows, or perhaps they were just behind some brush or trees and we couldn't see them. We knew they were probably around somewhere, but the fact that we couldn't see them somehow made us bolder. Now it felt like the whole lake was ours. With additional test runs, we found that we could travel the length of the lake at full throttle if the captain leaned forward and I crouched down all the way in the front of the bow. I'd be raised up in the air, and even small ripples made it a pretty rough ride, but the speed seemed worth it. We were doing a few tight curves at speed, and went into a tight figure eight and the captain decided it might be fun to do some very tight circles at near full throttle. I had a hard time holding on, and I think he did too and when I looked back, I was pretty astonished to see that the motor was pushing on the boat so hard that the back edge of the boat was below the level of the surrounding water. We were going fast enough so the water couldn't catch up of course, but I thought if we had to stop suddenly the boat might be swamped, especially if I lost my grip and fell back towards the stern. We weren't swamped though, and while the feeling of danger stunned us at first, we soon realized that it had been quite fun, so we did it some more, at perhaps a slightly reduced speed, until we were dizzy enough to feel something akin to seasickness.
We might have continued our adventures, had we not run into one of the cruel realities of motor sports. Having emptied the fuel tank, we were forced to take the oars from the bottom of the boat and use them propel the boat back to the inlet using old fashioned muscle power at what seemed like an incredibly slow pace.
After we returned, Grandad had thought up a few more mild chores for us to do. By the time we finished those, dinner was ready. After we ate, it was still light outside, but it was starting to get a little bit darker in the shack, so Grandad lit a kerosene lamp. After he lit the lamp, he sat back in his chair, cleared his throat and said, "You know, when you're out on the lake in that boat, I really want you to be careful."
I thought he or Uncle Bill must have come out and seen us after we forgot about the existence of our supervisors. I also suddenly thought of the fact that the motor was a lot louder when it was at full throttle, so maybe they hadn't even seen us and had just heard the motor running at top speed for extended periods.
I expected to be scolded and maybe not be allowed to use the boat by ourselves, or get a big lecture on how we could be hurt or ruin the motor. Instead, he solemnly said something like, "I told your mother I'd take care of you boys while you're here, and if anything happened and you were hurt or killed, I'd hate to have to write that letter to your mother. I would hate to have to write something like, Dear Jackie, Today I found the boys' bodies floating out in the lake."
I forgot about the prospect of punishment or lectures as I looked at the flame of the kerosene lamp so I wouldn't have to look at Grandad. I imagined my own body floating out in the lake next to an overturned boat and pictured Grandad's hand writing that sentence, and then my mother reading it. I felt a weight of responsibility shift from him as our guardian and caretaker to us as independent beings. I had often thought of the risk to myself when doing stupid things, or the risk of getting caught and getting in trouble, but I hadn't often thought about what I might be doing to someone else.
There was no lecture or punishment or removal of privileges, there was just matter of fact presentation of potential consequences. Then I realized maybe we hadn't been 'caught' at all. Maybe he just said that because he knew what kids were like and that if we had been screwing around, we'd know what he was talking about, and if we hadn't, we'd go on on being careful.
The next day, we took the boat out again, but this time we had fishing poles. There was still room for a few figure eights and some fast runs between attempts at fishing, but maybe we didn't have to open the throttle all the way.

armored vehicles

One evening after one of Carolyn's tasty dinners, we retired to the living room. Some logs were added to the fire and after the appropriate amount of stoking and adjusting, the fire perked up and was giving off a relaxing warmth. Coffee was served and a great feeling of well being and satisfaction seemed to settle down over us. Grandad sat for a while with his eyes almost closed, taking occasional drinks from his coffee cup, then perked up a little bit as the caffeine took effect. We started talking, and somehow we got on to the subject of ancient Roman warfare. That led to the subject of Roman ruins and fortifications, which eventually led to the trench warfare of World War I. Grandad said there was one thing which really changed the style of warfare during World War I, and it was a great invention. It allowed the troops to advance over the no-man's land and even over trenches while being protected from bullets. He said, "Now this thing really turned the tide, and it was like a great metal box with tracks that moved it along. Now what were those things called? Do you know?"
I kind of felt bad for Grandad because he didn't seem to be able to think of that word. I thought maybe he's just getting old, poor guy, but I know what he means and I'm sure he'll be impressed that I know and I answered with perhaps a hint of self-satisfaction, "Tanks."
"You're welcome!" replied Grandad.

collision mats

I wrote earlier about some breakfasts of overcooked fried eggs that grandad cooked at the shack. Those breakfasts were not very good. I was talking to my dad about that, and he remembered that the fried eggs would be cooked so much that the yolks somehow took on a green color and an unpleasant smell. The only way he could eat them would be to completely cover them with ketchup.
But not all breakfasts that grandad cooked at the shack were such a struggle to get down. I remember being quite pleased when grandad announced that there would be pancakes for breakfast. I like pancakes, and while they can be overcooked, or undercooked, there are usually lots of them, at least some of which are neither blackened nor soggy.
One thing I like about pancakes is their names. Pancakes have many names, and all of them seem to have a nice ring. Some people call them hotcakes, some call them flapjacks, others call them griddle cakes. Grandad told us that in the navy they were called collision mats. He asked us if we knew why they might be called collision mats. I tried to think of some clever answer, but nothing I came up with made any sense, so I answered no, and my brother did too.
Grandad explained that a collision mat was a large flexible mat with ropes attached to the corners that was lowered over the side of a ship if there was a hole below the water line, such as might be caused by a collision with another ship. The collision mat would be placed over the hole, and secured by means of the ropes attached to it. Hopefully the water pressure and ropes would keep the mat over the hole, and stop the water coming in, or at least reduce the flow enough to keep the ship afloat. It might work well enough to allow the ship to get to port, or to make some other more effective repairs.
Of course collision mats had to be made from extremely tough material in order to keep the sea from pouring in through a hole in the side of a ship. Sailors, dissatisfied with the lightness and fluffiness of navy pancakes, came to suppose that they were made out of the same material as collision mats, and could probably serve the same purpose, and share the same name.
It was always nice to have collision mats for breakfast at the cabin. If we were lucky, grandad would have remembered to bring a bottle of pure maple syrup which is a wonderful complement to a buttered hotcake. Sometimes we'd have to make due with a store brand pancake syrup left over from some previous expedition. Grandad would assure us that once we got rid of the mold from the surface of the syrup, the rest would be just fine. I was also fond of pouring a moderate amount of blackstrap molasses over my flapjacks.
After a tasty pancake breakfast, my brother and I would be assigned the task of cleaning up. To preempt any grumbling, grandad told us the story of the "pan cleaner."
It happened at a summer boy's camp, and I think he might have been one of the boys attending the camp, but I'm not sure. At any rate, they had pancakes for breakfast every morning at this camp. After breakfast, a couple of the boys were selected to help clean up. They would wash the pancake batter bowls, clear the table and wash the dishes, but they wouldn't bother washing the pancake pan. The next day, the cook would just make one huge pancake in the pancake pan. This pancake would soak up any left over grease and bake in any leftover burnt crumbs from the previous day's pancake making. This pan sized pancake would then be discarded and the normal pancake making would commence. This pancake was known as the pan cleaner.
When it was his turn, one of the boys refused to help clean up after breakfast. I think grandad said this boy was from a wealthy family and considered cleaning up to be beneath him. He was asked several times, but refused disdainfully.
The next day, everyone came to breakfast as usual. As a reward for refusing to clean up like everybody else, this boy was served first, and with the largest pancake. As the reader might have guessed, he got the pan cleaner. The rest of the pancakes were served directly to the plates of the other boys so he would not have to opportunity to get anything other than the unappetizing pan cleaner. He didn't eat the pan cleaner, so he ate nothing.
Perhaps he thought the pan cleaner was his punishment for not helping to clean up, and that he had paid for his crime by going hungry that morning, so he didn't bother to help with the clean up. Maybe he was surprised the next day when he got the pan cleaner again. The second time he got the message, and decided to help clean up after breakfast that morning, and hope for more pristine pancakes the next day.
Not that we would have considered refusing to help clean up, but we might have put it off until later in the day, to do something more fun, then accidentally forgotten about it. We understood the implications of this story though, and got right to the clean up, with a minimum of fiddle farting around.
When I came up to the cabin with Jörg and Paul, I told them about pan cleaners and collision mats as we were making pancakes for breakfast. We cooked up a nice stack of griddle cakes and took them outside to a large wooden cable spool that someone had set on its side in front of the cabin. It was the perfect height and size for a stand up table. It was a sunny but cool and breezy morning. We had a wonderful breakfast of hot collision mats and coffee as we stood around our makeshift table while the breeze rustled the leaves and spread ripples on the lake.

still standing

My friend Ali lives in Wisconsin and frequently goes up north to the Ashland and Bayfield area. She drives right by Phillips when she goes, so I asked her to stop by Lake Kemosabe and see if the cabin was still standing. In August, she and her friend and their dogs paid a visit to the shack, which was indeed still standing. Not only did they visit and report that the place was still standing, they took pictures.


This is the end of the road, where the "gate" used to be. Here begins a very bouncy drive on the dirt track, or a nice walk if you prefer.


Here is a view of the front of the shack, still standing, still leaning.


My dad built the roof over the area where firewood was stored. The roof was hailed as a great improvement, especially when trying to start a fire on a snowy or rainy day. The front porch is visible to the right.


Here's another view of the firewood storage area. Note the somewhat erratic chinking between the logs.


The screen on the front porch has fallen down on the end, but is still largely intact. Lake Kemosabe is visible in the background.


It looks like the front porch door has been removed, along with almost everything else. The mossy wooden gutter over the porch door is also gone. The wooden table that the squirrel liked to gnaw on remains.


The wood stove, bunk beds and table are all gone from the main room. The place looks so sad and barren. The lake is visible through the window, which has been broken. I don't think anyone will fix it this time.


The kitchen sink used to be there, to the left. I washed a lot of dishes while looking out that window. I wiped that counter top many times. It looks like it could use a good wiping. I wonder how that broken deer skull got there.


MJB mentioned that there was a dead porcupine in the kitchen, and here it is. Its final resting place is where the old gas refrigerator used to be.


Up north.

armistice day

One thing I always liked about Wisconsin was the weather. I liked the wide range of different types of weather. In the summer, there were some mild breezy days, and some windless sunny sweltering days. Sometimes in the middle of summer, the nights would be hot, but in early or late summer, the nights might be cool, even if the days were hot. In the winter, or even late autumn, the temperature might fall below zero fahrenheit. There was often snow in the cold season, up to several feet of it.
In addition to the wide range of normal weather, there was always the threat of more extreme weather. Summer thunderstorms could be violent, with rain pouring down and fierce wind gusts that would break off tree limbs or even knock down whole trees. Winter blizzards could dump huge amounts of snow in a short amount of time, with wind piling up large snow drifts. There were also occasional tornados in the state, adding to the excitement of a rapidly darkening summer sky.
My uncle told me about being up at the cabin in Phillips during an unusually strong rain storm. He said the cabin was shaking and he thought it might fall down around him. The old windows (before the vandals broke them, and they were replaced) had cracks in them, and the rain was coming down so fast, and the wind blowing so hard, that a little jet of water was shooting through one of the cracks in the window. Lots of trees were blown down during that storm. I think he had to cut through about twenty trees that had fallen across the dirt road to get to the county road.
My dad told me about going up to the cabin one winter. I had been there in late November quite a few times, and the cold and snow was more extreme than what I was used to in the middle of winter, so it was hard for me to imagine that it could be much worse. But from his description, it was a lot worse. There was a blizzard while he was there, and the temperature dropped precipitously. He was spending most of his time just trying to stay warm, constantly feeding the wood stoves. One evening, he loaded up the wood stove to get a roaring fire going to try to warm up the place. He took a drink from a mug of water, and put it on the wood stove to keep it warm, then got into his sleeping bag on the bunk next to the wood stove and fell asleep. After a few hours of sleep, he woke up shivering. The fire was out, and the mug of water he had left on the wood stove was frozen solid. I think it was then that he decided to leave the cabin as soon as he could get his car to the plowed road.
Grandad told me that he was walking through the woods after a severe storm, and there were a lot of trees down. Constantly having to climb over, or squeeze under the fallen trees made progress much slower than usual. He got to one area where almost every tree for twenty or thirty yards was blown down. The strange thing about it was that all the trees were blown down in a direction facing out from the center of the area, so it looked like there had been an explosion of some kind. It was as if a huge column of air had come straight down to the ground, spreading out in every direction, knocking trees down as it went.
Grandad also told me about the Armistice Day storm of 1940. He said it started out as an exceptionally mild fall day, about 60 degrees Fahrenheit, with occasional light rain. It seemed like a perfect day for hunting, so all over Wisconsin and Minnesota, duck hunters went out to their favorite spots. Since it was so warm, many hunters went out in short sleeves and took only light jackets, if anything. Hunters went to ponds in the woods, or rowed boats out to their blinds or islands in lakes and rivers. What they didn't know was that there was a fast moving cold front heading their way.
Towards midday, clouds came rolling in and the temperature started to drop. At this point, some hunters decided to call it a day and head home. Ironically, as the wind increased and the temperature continued to drop, all the ducks started flying down to lakes and ponds to try to get away from the worsening weather. This caused many hunters who might have gone home to stay out because the hunting was so good. By the afternoon, many hunters had shot their limit, but by this time, snow was falling and the temperature had fallen to nearly zero fahrenheit and the wind was gusting at up to fifty miles per hour.
By the time they realized how bad the weather was getting, it was too late for a lot of hunters. Some foundered in boats overloaded with freshly shot ducks in the waves whipped up by the wind on even relatively small lakes. Some got lost trying to find their cars in the white out conditions and froze to death. Some hunters were found days later, frozen solid in their shirtsleeves. Over 150 people died in that freak storm.
I can't remember whether grandad said he was out hunting that day, or if it was someone he knew, but whoever it was, was in a duck blind at the edge of a large lake. As the wind picked up, blowing right into their faces, the water around the duck blind started mysteriously rising, eventually pouring into the duck blind. That caused the hunters in the duck blind to get wet, so they decided to call it a day and go home, fortunately for them. Their route home took them around the other side of the lake, and as they drove by the opposite lake shore, they saw something that explained why the water had risen into their duck blind. The water on that side of the lake had receded, leaving about twenty yards of lake bottom completely exposed. The wind was so strong and steady that it was blowing the lake water to one side of the lake.
Later, I read somewhere that this weather system had started in the west, where it caused particularly strong winds in the Tacoma Narrows in Washington. The reader may be familiar with a particular event that occurred on November 7, 1940, having to do with a bridge over the Tacoma Narrows.
So one night while I was at the cabin alone in the summer, I heard the wind blowing. I didn't remember it being windy earlier, so I went outside and the wind had definitely picked up. The moon had disappeared behind thick clouds, leaves were rustling and trees were starting to sway. I noticed some flashes of lightning in the distance, and it smelled like it was going to rain. It seemed eerie standing outside in the darkness with the wind rushing past my face and I suddenly felt a little bit vulnerable. I was thinking about tornadoes, falling trees and fast moving cold fronts.
I had left a few recently washed towels and t-shirts out to dry, so I took them inside. The wind started getting stronger, and the cabin started creaking and I could feel little drafts blowing through the various cracks and holes in the walls. I started hearing distant thunder and seeing more frequent flashes of light in the sky. Then the wind actually started howling and the cabin would occasionally shudder when a gust hit it. I was worried that the old place might blow down with me in it, but I consoled myself that the place was indeed old, and must have withstood lots of storms like this one.
There was a bright flash and almost instantaneously after a loud crack of thunder, and rain started pouring down. The rain was beating against the windows, and when I looked out front, water was streaming off the roof. Seeing a stream of water that didn't have to be carried from the boat spurred me into action. I started collecting all of the tubs, pots and pans I could find and took them outside to collect the rainwater flowing off the roof. I quickly got soaked as I placed the vessels under the eaves. The wind had died down a bit, but the pouring rain and crashing thunder were deafening. I got a strange almost euphoric feeling as I was rushing around in the din trying to find every container I could to fill with this wonderful clean water that didn't have to be fetched from anywhere. I even got some old plastic jugs. There was plenty of water to rinse them out and fill them up from other pots sitting under the eaves. I even filled up a plastic jug by holding it under the faucet-like stream coming from the end of the wooden gutter over the door.
All the containers were overflowing with rainwater, and the rain was still coming down. Since I was already soaked anyway, I took off my clothes and took what seemed like a real shower out in front of the cabin. The rain was actually pretty cold, so it wasn't exactly luxurious, but at least I didn't have to pour the water on myself.
It was still raining as I dried myself off and put on dry clothes, and there seemed to be even more lightning. I stood in the doorway on the porch looking out into what was alternately bright light and complete darkness. There was lightning almost every other second, and it seemed almost like a disco with a strobe light. The trees were dancing violently to the music of the storm. One second there would be a flash and a big tree would be leaning over to the left, the next moment, another flash, and the same tree would be leaning way over to the right.
By this time I had more confidence in the cabin, and its creaks and shudders were more reassuring mutterings of a sturdy old friend than startling cries of impending danger. I felt a great sense of well being watching this spectacle of nature gradually die down from under a relatively leak free roof, having secured a good supply of water with minimum of work, and gotten clean in the bargain.

push reel

When my brother and I were assigned the task of mowing grandad's lawn, we would usually split the task. One of us would mow the front and sides and one would mow the back. We would often argue about who would get to do the front. The back yard had trees, the swing, usually a lawn table and chairs, the charcoal grill and various other obstacles to mow around or under, or have to move, mow, then move back. The front yard was a large rectangle of grass, unencumbered by obstacles which slow down or redirect a lawn mower, making it much more appealing for the young lad who wishes to finish his assigned task and commence to fiddle farting around.
The front yard was also a more pure mowing experience. Once the slightly irregular area next to the house was done, the remaining almost perfect rectangle could be completed by walking a single line around the outer edges of the rectangle, shaving off a strip until nothing remained. Or one could go back and forth on one edge of the rectangle, mowing long strips on one edge until only a single long strip remained. The adventurous mower might mow diagonally, or even mow in a complicated criss cross bow tie pattern.
Sometimes one of us would mow the entire lawn, while the other worked on something else. One might use the hand trimmer to cut the grass around the flowerbeds and obstacles, and rake up the cut grass after the other one mowed. There might be an extended period of negotiation to determine who would mow, trim, rake and or fertilize which part of the yard. We always kept a running tally of who had done what last time, or at least we pretended to.
While cleaning out the garage one time, we noticed an old push reel mower behind some things up against a wall. Being fascinated by all sorts of tools and machinery, we extracted the dusty old mower and took it out to the lawn. It was extremely hard to push, and didn't cut the grass very well. We put a bunch of oil on it, and it was a bit easier to push, but it still had a tendency to grab the grass and stop instead of cutting if it wasn't going full speed. It was a neat machine though, and fun to play with. We pushed it down the driveway as fast as we could so we could hear the blades whizzing around at high speed. We did actually cut a few strips of grass, but it was too dull to do much without extreme effort.
We told grandad about finding the ancient reel mower and that we thought it was pretty cool. He seemed pleased that we liked it, and announced that we would go and get it sharpened the next day. I think he liked the idea that we might potentially do more work while performing the same task, but he probably suspected that we would push it around a bit more, even if it was sharpened, and get bored of it and go back to the easier gas powered mower.
We took the old reel mower, the blade of the gas mower and the hand trimmer and shears to the place where grandad got things sharpened. It was a few miles away, in a little garage-like building behind a house. When we arrived, an old guy came out of the house to the building and did the sharpening. When we got back, we tried out the freshly sharpened reel mower as soon as we got it out of the car. It was much easier to push, and even going slowly, it cut right through the grass. The lawn could probably have waited another day or two to be mowed, but I decided I'd go ahead and mow the front yard with the reel mower since it had just been sharpened.
I started off at a good clip, confident that I'd finish quickly, now that the mower was oiled and sharpened. It wasn't too long before I slowed down though, realizing that the reel mower, though it was a lot easier to push than when I first tried it, was still significantly harder to push than the gas powered mower. I also noticed that the reel mower was narrower than the powered mower, so I was going to have to do more passes to finish, and I'd have to push it a lot further. It was harder to push, but it was more pleasant in some ways. There was no loud sound of a reciprocating engine, just the whish of the curved blades sliding over the cutting surface. It was nice to watch the cuttings shoot out of the mower and rain down behind it on the freshly cut surface of the grass. The faster the mower was pushed, the higher the cuttings would fly. I also liked the idea that I was doing the whole job without the help of some other power source.
As I got more and more tired I considered giving up, or stopping and coming back later to finish, but the part I had mowed looked nice, and I decided not to let that remaining bit of lawn defeat my intention to mow the whole front. My hands started to get sore, and I felt like I might be getting some blisters, but I kept going. I just kept looking at remaining amount of uncut grass and thinking I'd do at least one more pass. I thought that every time until there was only one more pass left to finish, and then I did one more, and I was done. I pushed the reel mower back towards the garage and stopped when i got to the garage and turned around to survey my work.
I was extremely pleased. The cut seemed so even and sharp. I remember thinking it must have been the first time I thought of a lawn as beautiful. There were no trails of battered grass spit out from a spinning blade, just an even coating of sliced grass. There was no smell of exhaust or oil, only the smell of freshly cut grass. I was very tired, and my hands were sore, but they weren't numbed and buzzing from the vibration of the gasoline engine, and there was no ringing in my ears.
I thought about doing the back yard with the reel mower too. It would have really looked great, but I was much too tired. I thought maybe I'd do it the next day, but then I remembered it wasn't my turn to do the back yard.