You know that saying, "about as exciting as watching grass grow..." or something like that? I realize this post might fit that bill. However, I decided it was important to note, in writing, how much I am actually grateful that my grass does grow, and how happy I am to mow it. Weird, eh?
When I lived in Georgia, I had a dinky push mower that was a pain in the rear to start, and nine times out of ten, I would pay some teenager to come and start it...and mow the lawn while he was at it. I couldn't be bothered, and it was so darn hot, your face would melt right off if you went out there. Really.
When I moved to Indiana, I found that the grass actually stayed green and pretty, and it wasn't so bad, once in a while, to cut it. In fact, I began cutting it regularly, which, I thought, was a novel idea. It also didn't really matter what I thought of it, because as the sole adult living in my house, I didn't have much of a choice.
Now, back to where I started, in Michigan, I wouldn't give up my lawn-mowing duty for anything. Well, maybe for a brownie sundae, but let's pretend that's not an option. In fact, I consider it a lawn-mowing privilege these days. It's an hour of peace and serenity, just me and the yard. But there's something more. And I had to get to the bottom of it. So a few days ago, perched atop my Yardman, I began thinking...as I tend to do. I don't take a Walkman, or I guess now it's an IPod...whatever those things are with the little buds that stick in your ear and make you oblivious to the world around you. I've seen the look that teenagers have when they are attached to those things, and it's spooky to me. I actually like to hear the rumble of the engine, the whirring of the blade. I watch the ground ahead of me, scanning for sticks, rocks, fallen walnuts. I watch along the creek as I drive past, looking for minnows or maybe a trout. I see when the snapping turtle is eyeing me, making sure we understand our place as cohabitants on this property. I note the progress of growth in the butterfly garden I've planted. I think of how I'll expand it next year. I begin reciting "Birches," my favorite Frost poem, while I circle the white, peeling trunk. I hum "Feelin' Groovy," and I feel every bump and curve of the land.
I do this weekly, whether it needs it or not. I come by it honestly; my grandpa was a habitual mower. There'd be weeks with no rain, and the grass would be all-but-dead, and George would say, at approximately the same time each week, "Well...guess I better mow." And he would. And it was my cue to go outside, too, because, well, I liked to be out there when he mowed. My childhood best friend and I would play while he would mow and then he'd bring his mower up to the corner of the driveway to remove all the clumped grass from the blade. He wore these dark brown cotton gloves, pretty much whenever he was outside, I remember. Sometimes he'd complain because the blade needed sharpening, but I don't even think he minded that much. He sharpened it on some sort of tool in the garage, telling me to "stay back" and I'd watch in awe as sparks flew around and his face skewered up with intensity. And always those dark brown gloves. One time I visited, as an adult, years after he gave up on mowing his own lawn, and the gloves were still on the shelves in the garage. I tried them on my hands; they were soft and worn and still smelled like grass.
Mowing, I suppose, has always been a comforting thing. It has always meant people were there, people who loved me and took care of me. At my childhood house, I enjoyed days when the mower came out, because it meant my dad was home. The few times I mowed the lawn in Georgia, I was always under the watchful eye of Sarge, my beloved dog and companion, who, at the time, was all I had..and therefore, was my home.
Sometimes now, my children will play on the deck while I mow, or ride their bicycles in the driveway. The dogs will lay on their bellies in the shade, sleepily supervising me as I pass by. I wonder if they, the kids and the dogs, like the mowing. They don't say.
In addition to my bond with the lawnmower, I'm taking up birdwatching. I didn't mean to, but they are kind of fascinating and beautiful. I especially like the morning doves that took residence in the crab tree. As a kid, my grandpa used to call to them from the porch swing in a sing-song voice, and Grandma would peg orange-halves to the maple tree for the Orioles.
But I suppose that's another post for another day.
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