When I was a kid, my dad did all the lawn mowing that was to be done. I always assumed he did the work himself to avoid hearing the griping and complaining of children forced to do the job. I don’t mow for myself until I was nearly 30 and living in my first house. It was then that I discovered my dad hadn’t taught us to mow because to teach his daughters to push the mower would have meant foregoing the very best of the gardening chores.
I love to mow.
My first mower, a bargain priced number from Walmart with a Briggs and Stratton engine, was a basic machine. It had no fancy features but jumped to life for years and mowed mile after mile of grass in Nebraska and New Jersey. It died four years ago and was replaced by a red mower with big back tires, which makes it easier to push. It’s stylish and a little fancy. I love to use it.
I am the mulch-mowing type who disdains those who bag their grass cuttings. That’s a waste of effort and fertilizer in my view. I love the smell and look of the fresh-cut lawn, with the just-mulched cuttings left in tiny, neat rows. I like the lines made by fresh-cut grass, those lines slowly expanding as I push the mower to the next row. I like to admire the grass after its cutting, neatened and tidied. I feel a virtue pour over me when the job is complete.
In the Spring, the grass is thick and lush and the job takes more time. In the heat of Summer, the job is hot and sweaty and after I mow, I drink cold iced tea on the front porch and urge the grass to grow quickly so that I may mow again. In the Fall, the lawn is drying and worn and running the mower in rows cleans up the fallen leaves.
Cutting the grass in October is a bittersweet task; each turn of the mower may be the last of the season. One day soon, I’ll wheel the mower into the garage, drained of gas and ready for a Winter of rest. It will sit quietly as the cold descends and the snow falls. We’ll both wait for Spring, one of us more patiently than the other.
