Spring cleanup: Estimated completion — 2044

Spring in Wyoming is a beautiful thing. Nestled somewhere between March 21 and the first high school track meet … when winter returns.

So naturally, last Saturday I decided to take advantage of a calm morning and finally clean up the yard.

Now, I love trees. All 44 of my trees. I love the shade, the privacy, the wall of green between me and my neighbors. It’s peaceful, it’s scenic, and apparently they are also a stick factory. I’m pretty sure my trees shed about 10,000 sticks a year, all of them carefully spaced across every square foot of ground.

And then there are the blackbirds.

I’m convinced a pair of them from Rocky Mountain High School followed me home just to continue their lifelong mission of frightening me to death at the worst possible moment. You know the ones. Silent … silent … and then suddenly they explode out of nowhere like a horror movie scene.

I was hoping they’d at least build a nest big enough to use up all the sticks.

Nope.

Instead, they seem to have teamed up with my neighbor Randy. I’m pretty sure Randy has trained them to pick up sticks on his side of the fence and then come over and poop on my truck.

So, I got to work.

My back’s been a bit tender lately, so I’ve developed a system. I pick up five sticks, throw them in the truck, then grab my back and let out a dramatic groan, just in case Randy is watching, before heading inside to watch an episode of Friends.

Five sticks. Half hour of Friends. Rinse, repeat, La-Z-Boy.

At this rate, I should have the yard cleaned up sometime around June 17, 2044.

Eventually, I decided to speed things up. I pulled out the riding lawn mower.

Now, my dad had a rule: any stick thicker than your pinky doesn’t go through the mower.

My dad also had really fat hands.

So I adjusted the rule. I figured nothing bigger than my wrist.

Seemed reasonable at the time.

Things were going great for about two minutes, until the mower started making a noise that can only be described as “mechanical regret.” Followed shortly by smoke. Not a lot of smoke, just enough to let me know I had made a series of poor life choices.

So I shut it off.

Went inside.

As I was walking in I swear I saw one of the birds sitting on my fence saying, “How you doin’?” 

So of course I watched another episode of Friends.

Because if there’s one thing spring yard work teaches you, it’s this:

There’s always tomorrow.

And if not tomorrow, June 17, 2044.