It’s patterns. Mowing allows one to create pleasing patterns that, in turn, embolden the mower to think creatively. Like others, as I mow, my mind is a river of wisdoms and ponderings on subjects of some breadth and depth. The drone of the engine through my earplugs serves to block superfluous thoughts that might otherwise stunt my creative drive. While in the act, I am pretty certain I would have been a damn fine college professor. Subject? I would say just about any subject.

With my contemplative powers at full throttle, my Briggs & Stratton mind delves deep into issues of great importance. I could list them here as one might list the great questions of mankind and philosophy. My inclination, however, is not to intimidate the reader, rather, I believe I should offer just a sampling of my thoughts that in turn might, in a Socratic fashion, encourage you, the average type of person, to develop an inquisitive mind of your own.

Being retired, I have time to mow. My acre of yard requires approximately one and one-half hours to complete, and, if the truth be told, I do at times mow before it is actually necessary. I may mow clockwise one week, counter the next. I may make concentric circles around landscaping beds, horizontal, or perpendicular stripes as is my wont. I am the master of my domain. Never mind that neighbors and passersby may not see the patterns, whether through dereliction or jealousy, or whatever small reason. The lines fuel my ability to address the issues that have occupied the philosophic imagination for ages. My grown children, when they choose to visit, will naively point out that they cannot necessarily tell where I am mowing. They are young, and preoccupied with their own lists of misguided priorities. They cannot see the patterns, nor the empowering nature of their creation. Age and experience will bring them around. Surely.

We (my wife and I) live on a curve in the street which serves as the quickest entry or exit into the adjacent subdivisions. We get a lot of traffic. Having worked in the local schools for thirty-five years, I know a lot of people in our small town. Some of them like me a lot, some do not like me at all, and most are appropriately ambivalent about my existence.  I choose to wave at each vehicle as they go by. I want to appear friendly to those who like me, unfazed by those who dislike me, and accessibly approachable to the ambivalent masses. Does this make me seem shallow?

Here is an anecdotal breakdown of affective responses to my waves:

Teenage boys and young men pretty much just look annoyed and ignore me, as if to say, “Are you kidding dude? I got places to go, people to see.”

• Teenage girls and young women look straight ahead, go directly home and report to their fathers that an old man in a floppy hat waves at them every time they drive past, and it is creeping them out.
• Lots of drivers of all ages never see me because they are looking at their phones.
• Middle aged men and women seem to wave back in some fashion, often reluctantly, perhaps knowing that they are next in line for mowing and waving without purpose.

Older folks slow down and wave with enthusiasm, excited that someone has recognized them. Some even stop to talk, reminisce, and occasionally compliment the lawn, if not the lawn mower.

So, yes I have not forgotten that I was going give you an inkling of my thoughts on one of the great questions. Here it is:  What should I do about waving to vehicles with tinted windows? It seems to me that tinted windows are a disinvitation to personal interaction. Tinted windows scream, “Leave me alone!”, or at the very least, “I am just too cool for you. Please do not wave at me.” But, I do not want to be presumptuous in my estimation of those who would hide behind these tall hedges of opaqueness, no matter what personality disorder they may be dealing with.

I wave at them, but I wonder if they wave back through conditioned response. I wonder too if some smile or scowl through conditioned response when I wave. I have no way of knowing. I wonder if they are even looking at me given that they chose to put up this fence in the first place. And, if they are looking at me, I think it takes a lot of gall, honestly, to do so when they have blocked my vision with a veil of smoky camouflage.

I have started an experiment. The results of which are yet to be determined. I have decided to give the finger (the old one-finger salute) to each vehicle that passes with tinted windows. Those drivers being true to their intentions will never know or notice. Those taking offense will suddenly reveal their deficient character for having stared at me while they blocked my vision, and thereby my thoughts of them. I can imagine the first tinted window driver that stops following my salute. “Did you give me the finger Mr.?, the driver will ask menacingly. And I will say with my best Al Pacino in Scarface impersonation, “Were you looking at me man?” Then he will climb back sheepishly in to his dark cocoon. Pretty sure he will take a different route from now on following this encounter.

That is probably enough. I do not want to overwhelm the reader with my river of wisdom and thoughts of the day. In any case, there is a city police car pulling in the driveway. Might be that nice officer Jason who lives down the street. Huh, never noticed before but the squad car has tinted windows. That’s interesting.