I announced at dinner this evening that I had created a blog. In near unison, everyone asked me what it was named.
"Mowing grass, with a hyphen. All the other names were taken."
Thelma started to laugh. She was imagining a scenario where Blogger had run out of names and I had somehow been saddled with "mowing grass" (with a hyphen) as the only available option.
(I've since changed the name from "mowing-grass" to "mowing the lawn".)
Why "mowing the lawn"? I'm not entirely sure. It has something to do with my strange obsession with having a nice lawn and my fondness for mowing. I love to mow the lawn. I like to mow other people's lawn. I like lawn mowers. I like trying to figure out the most efficient path or pattern by which to mow the yard. I like the uniform lines. I like the evenly trimmed blades of grass. I mow over each section of lawn two or three times before I'm done.
I like to sit on lawn mowers at the hardware store. I look forward to my dad going out of town so I can mow his lawn with his riding mower. (He has these noise blocking headphones with a built-in AM radio. Talk radio and mowing at the same time!)
When I was a kid, I used to beg Alan Kittleman to ride his ATV in the woods behind his house because I knew it meant I could cruise the same trails on his dad's rebuilt lawnmower. The lawnmower had two speeds—turtle and rabbit—named for the animals that were capable of passing you at each speed. Still, it was freedom and power in one beautiful machine.
The last few summers I've returned from business trips to London only to find a dry brown lawn waiting for me. I would mope around for days, mourning the loss. I'd dream of Fall when the weather cools, the rains come and grass starts to grow again.
This year, I'm on cloud nine. Not only did Thelma manage to keep the damage at bay when I was in London in June, but our lawn has actually grown in size as a result of the new road and nine new lots that were put in last summer.
The new lots across the street don't have homes on them yet. They're nothing but grass. It's all I can do to keep from crossing the street with my lawnmower to mow the fields. I finally gave in to the siren call on Friday. Having just finished mowing (and remowing) my own yard, I pushed the lawnmower across the street to see what kind of damage I could do. There was no way I could mow it all before the day was out, so I decided to carve something of a maze into it.
No sooner had I finished than my breathing became constricted and my eyes began to water and itch. It turns out I'm allergic to the field grass. That's what I get for getting carried away. It serves me right for not being satisfied with my own yard.
I'm sure there is some kind of deep metaphor in there. I'll have to figure it out later. Right now I need to go move the sprinkler.
"Mowing grass, with a hyphen. All the other names were taken."
Thelma started to laugh. She was imagining a scenario where Blogger had run out of names and I had somehow been saddled with "mowing grass" (with a hyphen) as the only available option.
(I've since changed the name from "mowing-grass" to "mowing the lawn".)
Why "mowing the lawn"? I'm not entirely sure. It has something to do with my strange obsession with having a nice lawn and my fondness for mowing. I love to mow the lawn. I like to mow other people's lawn. I like lawn mowers. I like trying to figure out the most efficient path or pattern by which to mow the yard. I like the uniform lines. I like the evenly trimmed blades of grass. I mow over each section of lawn two or three times before I'm done.
I like to sit on lawn mowers at the hardware store. I look forward to my dad going out of town so I can mow his lawn with his riding mower. (He has these noise blocking headphones with a built-in AM radio. Talk radio and mowing at the same time!)
When I was a kid, I used to beg Alan Kittleman to ride his ATV in the woods behind his house because I knew it meant I could cruise the same trails on his dad's rebuilt lawnmower. The lawnmower had two speeds—turtle and rabbit—named for the animals that were capable of passing you at each speed. Still, it was freedom and power in one beautiful machine.
The last few summers I've returned from business trips to London only to find a dry brown lawn waiting for me. I would mope around for days, mourning the loss. I'd dream of Fall when the weather cools, the rains come and grass starts to grow again.
This year, I'm on cloud nine. Not only did Thelma manage to keep the damage at bay when I was in London in June, but our lawn has actually grown in size as a result of the new road and nine new lots that were put in last summer.
The new lots across the street don't have homes on them yet. They're nothing but grass. It's all I can do to keep from crossing the street with my lawnmower to mow the fields. I finally gave in to the siren call on Friday. Having just finished mowing (and remowing) my own yard, I pushed the lawnmower across the street to see what kind of damage I could do. There was no way I could mow it all before the day was out, so I decided to carve something of a maze into it.
No sooner had I finished than my breathing became constricted and my eyes began to water and itch. It turns out I'm allergic to the field grass. That's what I get for getting carried away. It serves me right for not being satisfied with my own yard.
I'm sure there is some kind of deep metaphor in there. I'll have to figure it out later. Right now I need to go move the sprinkler.
Comments
by Hal Borland
There is something really appealing about a man who knows how to keep a beautiful lawn.
I love you.