I am going now to mow the lawn and water it. It seems like one of the most American things I can do. I am admittedly on shaky ground historically, as I doubt that George Washington mowed his lawn very often, and Ben Franklin likely advised others to mow, but avoided it himself. Hot dogs may have come in just before the Centennial celebration, but fireworks were set off in 1777, so 1776 was at least possible. Drinking too much predates colonial settlement by centuries.
So I'll stick with mowing the lawn. That's the plan.
Update: Well, sort of. I picked up donated food with my granddaughter for the halfway house. I went to a neighborhood party and traded a Sam Adams for a freshly-grilled sausage. Not really barter, because we both would have happily given them away, yet it's more fun to trade, isn't it? I listened to a great American blowhard with calm patience. A parade of golf carts went by, three of them. My stars, I do hate those things, but in a retirement park... I looked up and then there were seven of them, all decked out in spangly R/W/B stuff and honking. I found a new place to nap out by a fountain that no one visits, with a swing and a canopy and tacky little garden statues.
I moved a heavy object for Vacation Bible School (July 6-10) toward the car with my 1.5 arms - one good heave over the stone wall with my healthy arm - and decided discretion was the better part of valor, stopping a quarter-way along. When you worry that men are going to get in over their heads, don't ask "Do you need help?" because the answer is always going to be no. Ask "Is that a a two-person job?"Tracy loaded it into the hatchback with me.
The golf cart parade came back with 11 carts, honking even more, and the lawn is now mowed. Rain is expected. The sausage is coming back on me, or something else is, but my, my it was good.
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