The Zen of Lawn Care

Mowing the grass is my favorite summertime chore.  Okay, that's not really saying much, because I tend to despise all chores, but mowing isn't one of them.  It's really in a category all by itself.  It's more like... meditation with a power tool.

Mowing appeals to both sides of my personality--the girly-girl AND the tomboy.   It's a big, "manly" kind of outside job that doesn't require me to get dirty, or even sweaty, if the timing is right.  I don't have to worry about getting blisters or breaking a nail.  I can wear sparkly nail polish, flip-flops, and even jewelry, WHILE I do the job! 

I enjoy the peace and quiet of mowing.  The mower and the horsepower-whatsits all make noise, that's true, but it's kind of like being underwater.  The roar of the engine becomes "white noise" that doesn't bother me, but instead buffers out all of the other noises and creates a bubble that I'm alone in, at least for a while.  No Spongebob, no phone ringing, no dog whining...just the hum of the mower and my own thoughts.

Mowing is a job that can't be undone or messed up.  Too many of the tasks that I complete in a day, especially during these "housewife" days of summer vacation, are undone in a split second.  I finish the dishes, and someone eats.  I vacuum the floor, and someone spills Parmesan cheese.  Fold the laundry, and the dog knocks the piles in the floor.  None of that happens with the yard.  I mow, I finish, and it looks great, regardless of how many times people and animals traipse across it over the next seven days. 



The path is clear, grasshopper.

When I mow, I can clearly see where I've been, but also where I need to go.  The path is clearly marked by the straggly grass waiting for the blade.  In real life, I tend to spend too much time looking at where I've been, but it's sometimes hard to see which direction to turn.  I can't look behind me too much when I mow, because I might get knocked down...(hmmmm)...and it's no big deal if I turn the wrong way in the yard.  I can turn around and mow in the other direction at any time.  And the best part of that is, that NO ONE will ever know if I made a mistake, because it all ends up looking the same! 



Wheeeeeeee!



I can drive in circles and nobody can stop me.  My dad used to fuss at me for mowing in weird patterns when I was a kid.  He wanted it all square and even, for me to mow "inside the box".  But I never did, and still don't...figure 8's, donuts, around in circles with the throttle on high until I'm too dizzy to see where I'm going...that's how I mow.  I could NEVER be in charge of groundskeeping at a baseball field.  There are too many straight lines and even patterns.  That's not how my mower, I mean, BRAIN, works! (I'm pretty much convinced at this point that only men can mow that way.  No offense, men, but your brains are full of boxes.)



Challenges



The obstacles of the yard are much easier to navigate around than they are in life, because they are large, in-my-face, and unmistakable.   I take perverse pleasure in seeing how difficult I can make the obstacle course, occasionally shifting into a slower speed to make the especially difficult turns and maneuvers.  The smaller obstacles are actually the most dangerous ones, and remembering where those pesky tree stumps and roots are keeps me on my toes and paying attention.  And again, it doesn't matter which direction I take to get around the trees, because it all ends up the same.

When those moments of quiet aren't what I'm looking for, I can sing at the top of my lungs without hearing how awful I sound.  Neighbors, I apologize, but there's really not much that's better than Lawnmower Karaoke, courtesy of the earbuds and the IPod.  It's waaaayy better than singing in the car--because there, I can sometimes hear myself. 



Limbo lower, now!



I can get cheap thrills without being bungee-jumping reckless.  It's all about how close to the trees I can get, how many unreachable spots I can reach, how low I can crouch under the limbo pole branches in certain spots of the yard.  I start mowing at a nice, slow pace, then speed up gradually until I'm practically flying across the yard.  Unlike those thrill rides that now petrify me, the key is allowing myself time to adjust gradually, to work up to it.  By the time I'm close to finished, I've worked up enough guts to go flying down the steepest hills in the yard--all without a seat belt--and I'm wondering if the neighbor would be offended if I mowed his yard, too, just to prolong the fun.

All too soon, though, the task is over, the yard is immaculate (at least for a day or two), and I can go back to my normal routine of...Watching the Grass Grow.

I Heart Spring

There are a couple of random blooms left on my sickly forsythia bush. 

The view on a stormy afternoon.

There's No Place Like Home

It's Saturday morning, and I am at home.  And it's wonderful!  I realized last night that this was the first weekend we have been home in about eight weeks, and I was amazed that it has been so long.   

Don't get me wrong--I love our lake place, and I treasure being there.  On this beautiful, crisp morning, I can picture the beauty of the lake reflecting the sun and the smell of the woods.  And it's 9:30, which means I'm missing breakfast fixed by my dad, a Saturday morning ritual.  And I'm wondering what Lester, the 18-inch catfish I caught and accidentally released last Saturday, is doing with his day.  (Lester, I am coming for you.  Don't you worry.)

But on the flip side, I had the inspiration to write this morning, and I can.  Life at the lake is practically electronics-free and somewhat isolated.  Andrew watches a little t.v., but it's mostly shows that we've recorded at home and taken down with his portable player.  We don't watch news, I barely use my phone because everyone I would talk to is there, and I certainly don't have a computer or internet connection to distract me from the lake, even when I want it.  I keep talking about purchasing a netbook or laptop to take with us--I am inspired to write almost constantly at the lake, but short of scratching down notes on paper (perish the thought), I have no way to put it into print.  And as many times as I write myself notes about ideas, they get lost in translation.  The moment passes, I can't remember what I was trying to remind myself of, or I just get plain distracted and move on.  And while I would LOVE to be able to sit on the dock and write, or get up early and sit outside with my cup of hazelnut coffee in my pajamas, I also don't want the distraction to intrude on our idyllic and serene (unless someone is yelling at me, but that's a story for another day) escape-from-reality lifestyle.

I am also amazingly impressed with the amenities of home that we don't yet enjoy at the lake--like a toilet in the house.  I was able to get up in the middle of night and traipse to the bathroom without worrying about a flashlight or the boogeyman or where the golf cart key is.  And first thing this morning, I was able get out of bed without climbing delicately over James (the lake bed only has one way out) and walk calmly down the hall to the bathroom instead of the morning RACE to the bathhouse which is inevitable after drinking the requisite four-to-six Stella Artoises (I have no idea if that was the right way to make that plural?  My six years of French is failing me.) or Hoegartens from a "mixy-matchy six packy" the night before. 

The house will get some attention today as well.  Rooms that have been picked up and put away, but not cleaned, in months, just might get vacuumed and dusted.  And while I love my house unconditionally, in a few hours, I will be bemoaning the fact that we live quite comfortably in four tiny rooms at the lake--in a house that takes all of fifteen minutes to clean from top to bottom.  That's as opposed to the ten rooms and three bathrooms that we don't need  have filled with crap  currently occupy when we're home.  (My grand plan, if we're having no more kids, is to move us all into the downstairs of this rambling old farmhouse and turn the upstairs into another apartment--also a "story" for another day.)  It will take me all day to accomplish anything, because I'll spend most of my time running up and down stairs or walking fifty feet to get from one room to the other.  And then the house still won't be clean.  There are outside chores awaiting as well---hedges that threaten to take over the yard, bushes hanging over the sidewalk, a sandbox that needs to be de-leafed, and a porch that desperately needs to be swept and hosed.

All that being said, as I prepare for my second cup of coffee and venturing downstairs to make blackberry waffles for my guys, while I will relish every second of the day and all that it brings, my mind will inevitably be divided into A Tale of Two Towns, each with their own appeal (and drawbacks).  And I stop to remind myself that we are so very lucky to have both options (for I so often look only at the negatives) and to live for this minute in this place.  And just as "parting is such sweet sorrow," and being away from the lake makes me miss it, "absence makes the heart grow fonder."  It will make it that much sweeter to return to the lake in two weeks, just as being away has made it sweet to be home. 

And now, off to start the day.  At home.