The Side Effects of Endorphins

Who are you most inspired by?

There was a guy who lived a block over from me, and for some reason he decided to use his lawnmower to change the world.

Herman is an older man in the neighborhood known for regularly mowing a small plot of land down the street that does not appear to have a clear owner. His actions affect the local bee population as he manages the dandelions on this land, although no one requested him to do so or inquiries about his reasons. Communication with Herman can be challenging due to the noise from his well-maintained lawn mower. His wife recognizes the importance of pollination by bees.

Some individuals find fulfilment in retirement, while others seek activities to occupy their time; Herman identifies as neither. A new park opened nearby last summer, covering ten acres of undeveloped land, featuring dirt trails primarily used by dog walkers. Named Dolly and Ed’s after earlier owners; the field consists of grass and wildflowers and is commonly called The Field.

Recently, Herman began mowing areas within the field, widening the walking paths into broader lanes. These changes became noticeable as the trails altered in appearance and functionality. While the maintained trails are convenient for users, they intersect an area also inhabited by various animals such as coyotes, deer, squirrels, and raccoons. Although the field was initially intended to remain natural, local government policies typically favour maintenance over leaving land untouched. Earlier community efforts were needed to protect the bee population. As a result, the current situation stays unchanged.

The following day, while running a mile from my home in a field known for coyote and other wildlife activity, I reached the top of a hill and saw Herman creating new trails through an adjacent open field. This was a field that traversed a hill under the BPA power lines. He was jamming to music as his head was bobbing to the beat of nonexistent music, I did not have access to.

I did not know Herman all that well, still he recognized me from walking my dog in the neighborhood. He cut the engine, and I could hear him sing aloud to the Talking Heads. He did not seem like the Talking Heads type. I guess nobody does.

I can’t seem to face up to the facts
I’m tense and nervous and I can’t relax
I can’t sleep, ’cause my bed’s on fire
Don’t touch me, I’m a real live wire

Psycho killer, qu’est-ce que c’est?

I also noticed he now had a cooler on his vehicle and cup holders which held a shining can of Pub Beer. The sun reflected off the metal of the can. It was an odd scene. I did not really care about his drinking and mowing but he had a tepid concern for the wildflowers (they are colorful weeds) and the animals that live in the underbrush. He was only cutting the trails used by runners and dog walkers. He appeared harmless but it was a puzzle to me why he was doing what county maintenance should be doing.

And then he disappeared over the hill, sending sticker bushes, blackberries, and brambles into the mid-summer air. He made it down a hill that I thought as impenetrable with grace and nary a hint of remorse. Something bothered me about what he was doing and there was a certain part of me that was inspired by the man. He was being eccentric and weird on his own terms. It seemed that would be what retirement is all about. Ecosystems be damned, there are certain areas that should not be manicured. The animals living there like it just like it is. That is why they live there.

I was curious about Herman’s destination, but I had to meet somebody at the Under Bar over on Broadway. We were to do a brief German lesson and then we would have a beer or two. It was close enough to home and I decided to ride my bike. I have had this bike for years, with a broken gearshift, but it got me there.

It is not every day, but the German flowed freely today. Our spirited session was free flowing. We then sat and enjoyed another beer, and my friend stepped outside to smoke a cigarette. We stood on the sidewalk talking and out of the corner of my eye, I saw a man driving a tractor through the alley next to the food carts. The food carts smelled of grilled onions and peppers, yet I was picking up undertones of wet grass and gasoline fumes. Summer in the city has its own special vibe even in this newly bustling town across the river from Portland.

It does get dark late in the summer here in the Pacific Northwest. The Crescent moon, just risen in the west and darkness was about to win the day. I heard the car pull up behind the man on the riding lawnmower. Remembering he was married, I just figured his wife or someone from his family would be here to pick him up. And then the police sirens went off. The streets were silent, yet the strobe-like light was not easy to ignore. I did recognize the police officer as he lived down the road from me. His dog did not like my dog.

I saw the officer get out of the cruiser, pat has gun twice, talk into a radio device and walk around the side of the car. Sorry I meant riding loan mower. He asked the man on the white riding mower to get out of his vehicle and then blushed radiantly. From my vantage point, this was not going to end well. Herman was hammered. I do not know the rules about riding a tractor while impaired, but I imagine there are some.

Even though I did not know Herman well, I tried to intervene, an officer told me to stay away. They put Herman through various field sobriety tests, and I hate to admit that he did not do that badly. I saw the officer hand him a citation of sorts, and Herman looked at it like he got what he deserved. The gallant officer asked if there was anyone who could drive them home tonight.

And that’s how Herman and I became friends, driving a green riding lawnmower through the twilight of Vancouver. Herman sat in the back, with a devilish grin, having another beer.

Dream big.