Louise T. Guinther

I am the last lawnmower on my block. By that I mean not just that I’m the only person left who mows my own lawn, but that I’m always the last on the block to get around to it. This is somewhat embarrassing—I often sense (or imagine) my neighbors, all of whom have their professional gardeners come around in early spring to clean up their turf in a timely fashion—grumbling about me behind my back when they see my front patch still waving in hay. Their gardeners put down lime and fertilizer at just the right moment. Their gardeners know how to prevent crabgrass, and their mowers never get choked with grass that’s too long for the blades to handle.

But still I hold out. It’s not merely the added expense, though frugality was passed down to me by my father, who would probably turn over in his grave if he ever found out I was paying someone for such a simple do-it-yourself task. I can picture him out there in my childhood days, pushing the ancient rotary mower, its blunt blades tearing at the grass rather than cutting it, sweat pouring down his back. (I can also picture my mother on the top step of the front stoop, hollering at him to put a shirt on and stop making an exhibition of himself.)

I always wear a shirt when I mow, and I have an electric mower now (a wonderful little lightweight “lawn pup” so old that I’m terrified that if it ever gives out I won’t be able to replace it), but I don’t think I present much more respectable a picture. I’m usually not just the last to start the mowing cycle at the beginning of the season but the last mower on any given day, squeezing in a quick once-over as dusk falls, hoping I’m not interrupting anyone’s cocktail hour with the noise. (Dad’s old mechanical rotary was much quieter, but the lawn pup produces a minimal decibel level compared with the real gardeners’ powerful gas monsters. My mother wrote a poem on that subject once, which, if you are lucky, I’ll share with you on another day.)

Why do I do it? In a way, I guess it’s a point of pride — a small indication of self-sufficiency, meant to prove that I’m a responsible grownup even when I’m behind on my taxes or haven’t balanced the checkbook in months. But the truth is, I like it. Despite the fact that it’s often a rush job, and I never quite get to edging the sidewalks properly, it’s one of those instant-gratification chores that show you an immediate and striking improvement however haphazardly you have done it. And noise or no noise, mowing has a very zen vibe to it; walking up and down in a series of mostly straight lines, sometimes backwards, is even better than one of those hedgeless labyrinths people use for spiritual meditation. (For an awesome explanation of the difference between a labyrinth and a maze, try this link: https://www.kendrapatterson.com/blog/2021/9/10/labyrinth-vs-maze.)

Then there’s the chance to bond with the wildlife. Our yard has a great variety of birds who like to sit in the hedge or on the telephone pole and chirp at my folly, particularly on days when I am seeding, and they know (as I do) that the moment I turn my back, they will swoop down and gobble up every seed. And my cats interact with me in an entirely different way in the great outdoors, pretending they are jungle beasts and don’t really know me or even need me to feed them, when they can perfectly well stalk their own prey.

Maybe the best part of all is the smell. The scent of newly mown grass is so deliciously fresh and sweet it makes me want to come back in my next life as a bunny. Of course, enjoying the olfactory feature does require some extra effort. Right now, the onion crop taking over my “back forty” is so redolent that my newly mown greensward reminds me less of country pastures than of the kitchen at La Bonne Soup. It’s going to take me several sessions with Grampa’s Weeder to get back the desired bouquet. (If you too have a garden containing vegetation other than grass and you haven’t heard of Grampa’s Weeder, you need to look into it: https://grampasweeder.com/collections/grampas-gardenware/products/grampas-weeder)

So it isn’t all instant gratification, but I’ve never minded a little hard labor. There is often more satisfaction in work that tires the body than in the kind that tires the mind. There’s also something pleasing in the knowledge that it’s an infinite task; no matter how Wimbledon-like it looks at the end of a session, in a week or two, it will need doing again, and I can meditate on the happy if imaginary prospect of having a little more time to do a better job. I know that as long as I am tending it myself, my lawn will never be dandelion-free or perfectly manicured or impervious to invasion from grubs, squirrels and other pests. But it probably still looks greener from the other side of the fence. And I doubt that the people with the professionally perfect lawns, when they look out over their well-trimmed domains, get that little swell of pride I get when I sit on my back porch and put my feet up after a good day’s mowing.