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Okay, so truth be told I've had in my head for a while now a post about depression. My depression and crippling anxiety. The twin problems that have plagued me for most of my life but most especially and most effectively this entire summer. The two things that have contributed to keeping me away from writing and from much social contact and from much anything, really. In the typewriter in my head I've written the whole post out as a comparison of my mental state transposed against the state of my garden. It's not going to be the easiest post to write, but I think it needs to be said. So there I was, ready to cut grass. Hauled my big red Craftsman 54" deck lawn tractor out of the shed and fired it up. And promptly heard a horrific noise and felt a violent, sick-dog shaking all through the frame. Killed the motor and realised that a tiny little rubber grommet that likely costs about a nickle had torn, thereby letting a simple little fresh-air filter mounted to what would be the cylinder head on a car engine pop loose. The resulting small and well-hidden opening let oil leak out while Mrs. I cut the back yard last week and unbeknownst to her the engine ran just about empty of oil. Now, if you recall, I have one of those big La-Z-Boy lawn tractors with the cush seat and the giant floorboards and all that. I keep careful care of it, drive it none too fast, even wash it occasionally. I keep the deck clear of debris, sharpen the blades regularly and spray the 'inside' of the deck with grill cooking spray to keep the grass from sticking. As a rule of thumb I also try not to run over sticks...that is, sticks thicker than my thumb. My brother isn't like me. He's got one of those devilishly fast zero-turning-radius mowers, the kind that replaces the steering wheel with a pair of bent tubular handlebars that wrap up around you like the safety device on a roller coaster. The motor is in the wrong place (it's in the back) and it doesn't even have a proper hood. Instead...

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