Editor’s note: SunCookin’ is a new column by Rob Azevedo, who lives in Pembroke and holds deep connections to the Suncook Valley. Azevedo is the owner of Pembroke City Limits.

Where to start? Well, I suppose, no better place than on my rider lawnmower for the first cut of the season at our house in Pembroke. It’s often where I get my best thinking done, straddling my 52-inch mower, burning hours, and occasionally my mind, going back and forth, back and forth, rummaging about for inspiration, seeking something out of nothing.

Since moving to Pembroke four years ago with my family from the mighty Queen City, during the months between April and October I can be found cutting my lawn nearly every night. That sucker is a beast. The grass grows quicker than the stubble on my chin. It takes hours to cut. I like to break it up over a few days.

No trimming, no blowing, just cutting.

Still, very few things bring me as much joy as cutting my lawn. Maybe because I always dreamed of being a farmer, rising with the cows at dawn, catching a silky sunrise growing beyond their steaming heads. Working my plot of land until I smell of dung, sun and sweat.

Instead, I moisturize in the morning, hit myself with two shots of cologne and slowly work my way into the day. And I haven’t seen a sunrise in a decade.

The monotonous whirl of the blades beneath the mower, the constant rattle of the oil cap, the jet spray of grass bits busting from out the side shoot, they all come into play as I try to force a single chunk of creativity out of myself. What to write about? What band to book next at Pembroke City Limits? Did we order enough Budweiser this week for Waldo?

All this while attempting to stripe my lawn as gloriously as the Fenway ground crew does.

I’ve had my moments on that rider—good and bad. Some nights my chest relaxes, and I can really lock into a series of songs on my ancient iPod and bleach a ragged disposition. It can be a beautiful escape. No chimes, no email, no questions, no requests. Just me, the grass and 1200 songs. Everything else can kick rocks.

I’m out cuttin’!

Other nights, I swear the Gods are gunning for me. I can see the dog sniffing a patch of deer pee 50-yards away, her tail wagging at breakneck speed. Birds go from tree to tree. Frogs are croaking; the sky is yellow. Something makes a freaky sound in the woods. Tough to beat.

From my seat on that mower, though, sometimes I swear these blessings are daring me to really trust them. To see them each as more than just one big tease. Suddenly, I’ve heard every song, seen every cloud formation and dreamed every dream. I’m stuck out here. The whirl of the blade ends up eating my face. C’est la vie.

But not tonight.

Tonight, this first night of cutting, high up in the muggy sky, a Beechcraft and Cessna split off under the clouds, coming or going from Airport Road in Concord, doing the coolest thing ever. Cutting through clouds, not rows of grass, but still cutting all the same. Them up there. Me down here. Each carving through a large swath of nothingness, driving headlong into space and time. Doing what we do.

It’s then that I said to myself, “If they can do that, you can do this. Shut up. Just write.”

Now, time to get back to cutting.

Rob Azevedo can be reached at onemanmanch@gmail.com. He can also be found mopping the floors at Pembroke City Limits.