The boys are here to cut the grass. That is making me more excited than I was on my last date with Stevie Nicks. You might think I made that up, but you have no way of knowing, do you? So, I am going to add that to my mythology.
Anyway, the fact that the boys are here to cut the grass makes me say ‘yay! about that. That’s because it frustrates me having somebody else tend to the tonsorial needs of my turf and I hate having to wait for somebody else to decide when my grass needs cutting because that is often a couple of days after I’ve decided it needs cutting. I’m kind of turf-appearance anal if truth be known.
That’s mainly because a couple of seasons ago I gave up the ‘right’ to cut my own grass. My old mower had given up the ghost and needed to be replaced. And, being the enviro-minded sod that I am – as long as the enviro issue isn’t too inconvenient – I wanted to get one of those fancy rechargeable electric mowers. And then I saw what they cost, and then I thought how many visitations by a lawn service would it take to equal that cost. So, with some persuasion by Wendy, we opted for the lawn service.
And don’t get me wrong. These guys do a great service. They’re quite meticulous and they do all the edging and all the other wonderful things I was often inclined to neglect – until a ‘next time’ – that sometimes never arrived, especially if it was near the end of cutting season.
But, for me, it was difficult to give up the freedom to mow at my own whim. The decision was just another of ‘those’ signs – no, I don’t mean the sort that is alleviated by Cialis – of forsaking a certain freedom and pattern that had been with me for much of my life.
I began cutting my parents’ lawn when I was about 10 or so. With a hand-mower I puffed and fretted through the weed-festooned patch that passed as a lawn at the Domaine de Lidster. My old man generally thought I did a shitty job, but that’s just the sort of fun dude he was. Anyway, cutting the parental lawn ultimately led to other lawn cutting jobs around the neighborhood. It was OK. It meant a few bucks would come my way until I could nab me my first ‘real’ job at 16. Don’t mean to be smug, kids, but we were expected to ‘work’ when I was growing up.
Anyway, I didn’t bother much with lawn trimming again until I go a place of my own, and after that and many mowers later I continued down through the years.
I kind of liked the task. I could almost meditate at the time and some inspired thoughts – that mainly went nowhere – periodically arose. Quite a few columns and the odd blog came about when I was grass cutting. And even though I’m a bit allergic to freshly cut grass, I love the smell of knew-mown lawn.
And now that the boys are finished, I just may go out and catch me a whiff.