We have reached the time of year where most of us will spend our time outside looking for something to stand under. It’s all shelter or shade until October now.
That would be OK, I suppose. There are worse ways to spend an outdoor hour than sitting under the shade of a tree as the heat shimmers across the landscape or escaping to its shelter as a shower rushes in to nourish the thirsty earth.
But, then, there is the matter of the lawn. It has to be mowed, especially after a good rain.
It’s a chore to a lot of folks, who happily pay someone to perform this task.
But I’ve always liked to mow the lawn, one of the few chores that seems to me more of a diversion than a job. It’s hard to explain.
But me and a lawnmower go way, way back — about 47 years now.
When I was 10, I became a landscape maintenance professional — I mowed the lawns of neighbors, which was something of a family tradition. For me and my siblings, mowing lawns was a pre-teen occupation. My brother Fred, 10 years my senior, began the business, handing over to Mick (four years my senior) and finally to me.
Dad had bought a Yazoo lawnmower, a ponderous contraption of heavy steel and iron and virtually indestructible, even if the engine wasn’t. About every other year, we’d have to buy a new engine, usually a Briggs & Stratton 3.5 horsepower motor that dad would drop into the frame.
If memory serves, I had about 15 regular clients, all within a quarter mile or so of my house. Each morning, I’d head down to the little mom and pop gas station and fill an old anti-freeze jug with a quarter’s worth of gas and head off for the job.
I could usually mow two to three lawns a day, depending on the size of the yard. Except when I mowed the Haas lawn. The Haas residence was poised on the top of a high hill on about two acres. Mowing that with a push mower was an all-day event, but it was also be biggest pay-day — five bucks.
Most of the other yards were much smaller. I had all of what we used to call the “widow woman” market, little shotgun houses fixed on small lots. It might take 45 minutes to do the job, but then, the pay wasn’t all that good — 75 cents. Dad would never let me raise the rate, either, on account of the fact that you never, ever take advantage of a poor widow woman.
When I would finish one of these jobs, I’d knock on the screen door and a little old lady would tell me to come in. The widow women’s houses all smelled of dust and ointment and I was eager to get my pay and escape. This often took a while as arthritic fingers struggled to manipulate little coin purses, clouded eyes tried to distinguish between a nickel and a quarter and failing memories usually resulted in a recount or two.
Having received my pay, it was on to the next job.
It was hot work, punctuated with yellow jacket stings. While the other kids in my neighborhood played ball or goofed off, I bore the burden of a working man.
On the plus side, I was the richest poor kid in our poor neighborhood. I had a savings account at the bank and had money for stuff my folks would find frivolous — I had an enormous baseball card collection, for example.
Like my brothers, I gave up the trade when I turned 15 and was able to work at a fast-food restaurant, which I considered a step up. What was I thinking? I gave up being my own boss for that?
Today, I still mow my own lawn and sort of take pride in it.
I am an expert in the craft. Sometimes, my son offers to help out, but he is an amateur and doesn’t understand the art of mowing. He knows nothing of the proper pattern that a lawn should be mowed. Nor can he manipulate the mower so expertly that a weed-eater is unnecessary. I can wield a push-mower the way a Master Chef uses a sharp knife.
Today, a lot of folks use big zero-turn riding mowers that cost more than most of the cars I have owned. This offends me. It’s like mass-produced artwork. A push-mower is all about precision, which you can’t get from one of those glorified golf carts with blades.
It’s clear my son doesn’t have my appreciation of the art. He doesn’t see the beauty in the handiwork of a push-mowed lawn. The intermingled scent of fresh-cut grass and gasoline does not move his spirit as it does mine.
So, let the summer come and the grass grow.
Give me shade, shelter and a push mower and I’m good ’til October.
Slim Smith is a columnist and feature writer for The Dispatch. His email address is [email protected].
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