Mowing Grass: A Lifelong Love Affair
Even though the snowiest portion of our Colorado winter remains, the warm, sunny days sprinkled throughout March and April have me once again looking forward to the feel of a lawn mower in my hands. It’s absurd, you say, to be thinking about lawn work this early? Well, maybe. But I must confess that I’ve always had an inexplicable affinity for cutting grass.
As a tyke, I’d hear the snarl of the lawn mower and immediately bolt to the couch, where I’d climb up to the living room window to watch my dad mow the lawn. This early fascination with mowing prompted my mom to buy me a toy lawn mower for Christmas. Making noise when pushed over carpet, tile, and wood floors, over concrete and dirt, that plastic mower soon became my favorite possession. Its only shortcoming was that it would not grunt and growl where most desired — in grass.
As I acquired more sophisticated playthings in the years that passed, that toy lawn mower was handed down to siblings who were never quite as taken with it as I had been. Still, the sound of the real lawn mower continued to signal something special. Every time I heard its roar I’d stop whatever I was doing — running Hot Wheels through the quarter mile, ordering G.I. Joe into combat, officiating a game of electric football, or watching Batman reruns — and race out into the backyard where I’d find my dad cutting the grass. I loved to follow him as he mowed, walking in the fresh green stripe that felt like stiff new carpet to my bare feet. I don’t ever remember asking to mow the lawn. Maybe I knew the answer: “You stay away from that thing, young man. That’s a good way to get hurt.” Or perhaps I could plainly see that a lawn mower with controls high above my head would be impossible to pilot.
Several years later, after moving his family to a new house with a bigger yard, my dad added an item to my list of chores: mow lawn. This extra duty was not demanding at first — I even had the use of a fancy new lawn mower to make my job easier — but mowing soon became more work than fun. And that lawn kept getting bigger and bigger, taking hours and hours to mow. “How can so much be expected from a kid,” I often wondered. Many times my mom would help me — more out of guilt than pity, I presumed — by mowing half the lawn. Just the same, mowing was never easy: “Someone will rescue me as soon as school starts,” I thought. “When I’m not in class and they find me here cutting grass, it’ll all be over.” My love affair with mowing had suffered a critical blow.
I survived those early days, and after graduating from high school found myself in need of work. After submitting only a couple of applications a job quickly came my way — golf course maintenance. On the golf course, mowing was a business, a money making venture. And, unlike my dad who rewarded my horticultural efforts with three squares and a room of my own, the golf course compensated its workers with dollars, real money that one could spend. It didn’t take long, however, to realize that on the golf links mowing also had a higher purpose: to beautify and call attention to a carefully designed landscape. Riding mowers and specialized machinery of all kinds made this task easier; but cutting greens in a perpendicular crossing pattern that resembled green Scottish plaid required training, as did creating the long, graceful curvilinear lines that stretched the length of the roughs and fairways. Mowing to achieve these ends required skill and taking pride in one’s work. Cutting grass was an art and a science. And, to my pleasant surprise, it was once again fun.
Mowing as art and science, I soon realized, could be practiced anywhere, not just on the golf course. I took my newfound knowledge and enthusiasm home and gradually applied them to my parents’ lawn. Not only did I alternate my cutting direction each week to achieve the “X” pattern of the golf course greens, but I also began to pay attention to the nitrogen, iron, and phosphoric acid content of the fertilizers I applied. My aim was to have the greenest and best kept lawn in the neighborhood. Only a couple of summers passed before neighbors began to cut their lawns at angles and attempt to make them greener as well.
Now as an adult with a home of my own, I find myself busy with school, work, and other activities. And though cutting the grass occasionally becomes a task that gets in the way of these things, it still remains enjoyable, almost magical at times. When mowing the first blades of grass that begin to shoot up in the spring, the welcomed return of warmth and chattering birds bring back the unbearable excitement of school year’s end and the endless summer that lay ahead. The hot, sticky afternoons of summer lawn work call up thoughts of sunburns, ice-cream treats, and sidewalks and streets too hot for bare feet. And the smell of cut leaves and damp grass during the fall remind of yet another school year, uncomfortable new clothes, and dreaded football practice.
I still have my plastic toy lawn mower. It’s something I’ll always treasure and perhaps pass down to my own children, if I ever have any. Like Orson Welles’ sled in Citizen Kane, that mower will always be my “Rosebud.” But unlike Welles, I never really left my place of happiness. And on those rare occasions when I do feel as though I’m drifting away, I can simply take a walk through freshly cut green grass and be back in an instant.
