Mowing the Lawn

I never was one for yard work or gardening. I grew up viewing outside chores as a man’s work. My Dad always kept the lawn looking neat. If he didn’t mow it himself, then one of my brothers did. I can’t picture my mother or one of my sisters using a lawn mower. Dad was highly skilled in outdoor maintenance. My memory is bursting with images of Dad weeding, trimming, and gardening. Dad’s garden was expansive yielding a bountiful harvest to eat and give away every summer.

A couple of times the gardening bug has bit me. I’ve been swept away with the idea of fresh home grown vegetables and fruits gracing my table. In a flurry I would till up some ground, hoe, fertilize, and plant rows of bush beans, mounds of cantaloupe and squash, and containers of tomatoes. Usually the gardening bug has lasted slightly longer than a common cold. I would become impatient for the harvest, tired of the maintenance, and my garden would die a slow death with the weeds choking the life out of the crops.

So what am I doing out in the back yard this morning? As I survey the calf-high grass I recall Dad’s tradition of not mowing for a couple weeks before Easter. His lawn had to be high enough to hide eggs. I’m sure it annoyed him to let it go for those few weeks. Almost as soon as the hunt was over, the lawn was mowed again. As I examine the clumps of high grass and weeds I spy some impressive hiding places. Maybe I should have an Easter egg hunt? I ditch this idea because we’re going out of town for Easter.

I sigh. Putting this off isn’t the answer. The lawn really needs mowing and I’m the one who’s available to do it. Yuck. I begin to pick up the back yard. There are palm fronds, tools, chairs, a hose and an extension cord lying about. All of these are potential hazards for the power mower.

I open the shed and wrest the lawn mower from its winter quarters. I position it and tug the cord. Nothing. I give it another couple hearty pulls without getting any response. I know I’m forgetting something. I stop and perform a thorough visual inspection and discover a red button. Something primal tells me to pump it a few times. I tug the rope and the mower roars to life.

I push the sputtering and chugging machine through the tall grass. I have to tilt it on its back wheels to reach the highest patches. My arms are aching and my legs are straining to run it back and forth over the weediest spots. I push, pull, and maneuver the apparatus until it stops catching the clippings. I pause long enough to empty the bag, reattach it, and begin again. The mower stalls out. I’ve run out of gas and have to decode the gas can instructions so I can refill the tank.

It never used to be this way. Lawn maintenance was one area where Paul always scored an A++. For years he mowed the lawn regularly without me reminding, asking, or maybe even noticing. He never complained about it or put it off. He even mowed the rental house lawn in between tenants. Mowing this morning stirs a conviction that I didn’t appreciate his efforts enough.

I’m not enjoying this. I decide to look on the bright side and think about the positive aspects. I’m quite sure that lawn mowing qualifies as a workout. My First Place for Health program equates 19 minutes of gardening to 1 mile of walking. Another website claims that one hour of pushing a power mower burns 374 calories. As I push the mower I think about the healthy benefits I’m getting while making my yard look better at the same time.

Mowing the lawn also gives me a chance to enjoy memories of Dad and be thankful for the example he was to me. I am also grateful for my husband’s strong yard work ethic. Straining against the mower makes me admire his strength and consistency in performing yard work.

In spite of being thankful for all those things, I can’t help but note that I’m the one mowing the yard today. Now that I think of it, I’m mowing more often. Paul started off strong in the yard work department, but somewhere along the road he started slipping. Maybe it’s due to poor time management. Between his full time job and his four part-time jobs, time is always getting away from him. Maybe it’s that 50-and-over softball league he joined this year. Those Tuesday night games are taking away time that he could be spending on chores.

I sigh again and resign myself to the fact that mowing the lawn has become a woman’s work in my home. It’s hard to swallow, but who can argue with the facts? It’s happening repeatedly. It happened in April, 2008, and now it’s happened again in April, 2009. That’s TWICE… in twenty-four years.

I put away the lawn mower and smile.