["Open Mike" is the opportunistic Editorial Page of TOP, which gets done adventitiously as the occasion arises.]
There comes that time in early spring when we have a string of nice warm sunny days and I look at the grass and think, "nah, it's too early, it's not long enough to bother with yet." It is so nice out you wonder if it will never get cloudy.
Then the skies cloud up and the rain starts, and it rains for twenty days. The rain makes the grass leap up out of the ground and head skyward. At the same time, the rain soaks everything, making it impossible to run the lawnmower to cut any of that grass back down again. You have to watch helplessly while the grass grows out of control, unable to do anything about it. This happens seemingly overnight. Presently the grass is nearly as high as the rooftops, in spots.
Finally there comes a break in the weather. The clouds roil about, the sun is seen fleetingly at times, the asphalt road actually dries off even at the edges where it's broken up, and you seize the moment and run out and hop on the old John Deere, hoping it will fire up after slumbering all winter. But I'm outrunning my tale: before I begin mowing I have to pick up sticks. That's what the trees, especially the sycamores, do all winter—shed sticks—and I collected enough of them yesterday to make a house for the middle of the Three Little Piggies, all the while mourning my misfortune for being so tall and having to stoop so far to reach the ground. Last fall I had all manner of trouble with the John Deere. It had to go back and forth to the repair shop twice, and I was pessimistic of its prospects this spring. After having been hit with a succession of unexpected expenses this year so far, I thought perhaps having to buy a new used lawn tractor was going to add to my list of woes. I tried to counteract this possibility by idly shopping online for a new John Deere that I can in no wise afford. But I was pleasantly surprised to find that the old one started up and ran smoothly; maybe that repair shop knows what it is doing.
If you read novels, and have ever encountered the phrase "the forsythia are in bloom," this is what that looks like. For those of you who live amongst skyscraper canyons in big cities, I can tell you that having a lot of forsythia is one of the good things about living in the country. The more forsythia, the better.
I believe my John Deere has about as many horsepower as the first Volkswagen Rabbit, the original hot hatch—about 90—making it very powerful, for a lawnmower. So if I creep very slowly across the great heaps of leaves that I absolutely meant to rake up a long time ago, the great engine with its new mulching blades will roar and churn and shake and spit out a torrent of moist leaf mulch, which I arrange very un-aesthetically in senseless patterns across the lawn. The yard is complicated, and has a great many impediments to the mower, including all the low-hanging branches that I continue to intend to cut back, and all the tenacious mystery plants that were once cut down but that persist in continuing to grow. (The rule is that if I want a plant to grow, it does not, and if I try to kill a plant, it will cling to life and continue to pester me for years without ever having the chance to sprout leaves or do any of the other things that plants are believed to have to do to sustain life. I had a wisteria bush cut down to the ground five years ago, for instance, and it is still angrily trying to come back out again.) The yard has also become filled with spontaneous potholes or sinkholes over the winter for no known reason. The smallest of these are no problem; I merely aim the lawn tractor to straddle and pass over them. The largest are also no problem, as I simply drive the mower down one slope, traverse the bottom, and drive up the other side. It is the mid-sized ones, the ones the size of a bathtub or a La-Z-Boy recliner, that are the problem; you can get hung up in those, and you may then require the services of a Mennonite neighbor with a team of draft horses to extricate the tractor. This happened only a few times yesterday, as I went along.
The first cutting of the season is merely emergency triage, meant to cut the grass back before it exceeds the height of oaks. I don't bother doing a neat job of it; I cut where I can and leave the niceties for later. All thoughts of making the lawn look good are set aside and left for the clement months, when the sun shines and the gnats shimmer in the hot air and the snakes that live underneath the rocks sun themselves on top of the rocks. For now it's just a grim battle of man against grass. Of course, I have another limitation that vectors in upon the job, namely, that my back can only take so much jouncing around perched atop the tractor. If I don't desist as soon as my spine begins to feel tender, I will be faced with days in traction, days on crutches, followed by a further flourish of days hobbling around with the aid of a cane. It's best not to overdo.
But yesterday I needn't have worried, as presently the rain returned, and I had to quit on account of that. That's "rain" in the colloquial usage. Did you know that not all rain is actually rain? "Rain" is technically steady precipitation that exceeds twenty minutes in duration. Any less than that, and it's a "shower." So now you know why the weatherman insists on saying "scattered showers"—he's being technical. The problem with these definitions, of course, is that in these parts, twenty minutes is long enough for about an inch and a half of rain to fall (that's a cm and half to you foreigners, I b'lieve), and that will soak things almost as good as rain will.
Anyway I got about half the yard done yesterday, which I am pleased about; and it looks like hell. I had to skip the places where the leaves were heaviest, lest I risk the mower blades clogging to a stop, and I got no trimming done despite trimming being urgently called for. But this is one of those incremental tasks. It keeps needing doing, again and again, and each time I bravely forge out to do yardwork I will improve one area a little better than I did the last time. And in that fashion, bit by bit, the premises will gradually get whipped into shape. I am confident that in this manner I will have the whole yard looking nice and neat by the time the leaves turn and start to litter the ground again, next fall.
Mike
[CORRECTION: I'm surprised that so many of TOP's otherwise intelligent readers got this wrong, but we just hired a new fact-checker—one who attended the University of Science, no less—and he checked again. He assures me that one deutsche mark does indeed equal one inch. So the correspondence is 1:1, and, therefore, 1.5 inches = 1.5 dm, as I reported in the post. If you don't understand this, it is doubtless because you are not European.
However there is one very bad mistake in the post, which management regrets. Take a look at this photo of the instruments from the cockpit:
So the lawnmower engine is NOT 90 horsepower, as I stated...it is 180 horsepower, as you can see for yourself. And note that mine has only 4,645 miles on the odometer. That doesn't seem like much, but none of them are highway miles.
Glad we got that all cleared up! —Ed.]
[There might have been some satire in this post, and not just the measurement conversion.]
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Featured Comments from:
Bryan Hansel: "I approach lawn mowing differently. I go as short as possible in an attempt to kill the grass so I don't have to mow. It might be different here in northern Minnesota though. We currently have about a foot of snow in the yard. After that melts, everything turns to mud. Just as the mud starts to dry, and the grass starts to grow, and the spring flowers start to bloom, the black flies emerge. That happens in June. There's a saying, "Don't go outside in June." You'll die from black fly bites. But the grass is getting high in June, so the mowing must be done. That's when the bug shirt comes out. It's armor against the bugs with a full mesh hood, bug-proof fabric, and elastic cuffs at the wrists and waist. By the time I work the courage up to push mow the lawn, the mosquitoes have emerged. Then it's an all out fight for the lawn. It's humans vs. the bugs. The bugs usually win. Thus my goal to kill the grass so I don't have to suffer the pain of 10,000 Minnesota black flies and mosquitoes. And this is all before the No-See-Ums hatch."
Mike replies: I'm like you. I grew up in Wisconsin, and I continue to be amazed, when I'm in other parts of the country, how few insects there are. When we played outdoors as kids we thought it was normal to be covered with red polka-dots (mosquito bites). In Berkeley when I was there my girlfriend's mother kept her french doors wide open to the evening air! No screens at all. I was astonished. As you well know, she would never get away with that in Wisconsin or Minnesota.
Stelios: "What? No picture of the John Deere?!"
Mike replies:
Note Green Bay Packer colors.
Geoffrey Wittig: "There are many philosophical elements to yard and lawn care. Some folk regard it as a great crusade, wherein your friends and neighbors, and perhaps St. Peter at the Pearly Gates, will judge you severely for the state of your yard. Such folks tend to mow at the first sign of green grass, keep the lawn severely trimmed, and neaten up the edges on hands and knees using scissors. A single dandelion is cause for chemical warfare. Every twig must be removed. I'm on the other end. As an adolescent I tried to persuade my father that if we merely waited, the wind would blow all the downed leaves out of our yard and off to somewhere else. He was not amenable to my argument, directing me to man the push-mower. I now live on about 99 acres of hilltop land. Thankfully most of it is forested or far too steep to consider mowing, so we only mow perhaps a quarter acre. Even more fortunate for me, my wife actually enjoys mowing. The first time I mowed the lawn 35 years ago, I came into the house sneezing uncontrollably with my eyes swelling shut and my nose running like a faucet. My wife sighed and said, 'I'll mow the lawn if you get me a riding mower.' 'Done!' Best money I ever spent."