By Dave MacNeil
I saw a T-shirt the other day that said, “I don’t snore. I dream I’m a lawnmower.” I might have to order it, so I have something special to wear when I’m in my happy place, walking behind my push mover.
And though I’m not exactly a fan of the hip-hop trio Salt-N-Pepa, there’s another shirt with a picture of a mower with a message that says, “Push it. Push it real good.” Maybe I’ll order two.
Let’s be clear.
I’m not one of these people who fusses with their lawn, constantly watering, fertilizing and weeding. In fact, at my adult daughter’s urging, I even observe No Mow May. And when I say “observe,” I mean I appreciate the importance of allowing the bees to pollinate my dandelions, and I will limit my mowing that month. But I’m hardly going to go a whole month without my mowing fix because – let’s be real – my mower has barely had time to cool off in the shed when the dandelions begin dotting my acreage once again anyway.
Our home in the city has never been a great place to grow grass, as the eight trees on our half acre lot tend to win the fight over moisture, so if I can get a weekly mowing in, I’m happy. I don’t even care if my lawn is a mixture of grass, clover and weeds, because it’s not about the lawn. It’s about the mowing.
In the 25 years we’ve owned our home on a quiet Dartmouth street, I always get a respite from mowing during the period from mid-July to mid-August, when my lawn goes dormant and crispy, while all around me my neighbours pluck dandelions and water. But I don’t care, because the two acres I have to mow at our cottage in West Mabou more than make up for it.
This year has been a bit different, with the lack of rain forcing my Dartmouth neighbours to find other pastimes. I’m not saying I’m happy that this summer’s drought has acted as an equalizer, but I couldn’t help but point out to one of those neighbours the other day, “This is the first time in our 25 years on this street that our lawn looks like everyone else’s.”
I often dream of having the time and the financial resources to be a regular golfer, but if I’m being honest, I think it’s more about the grass. There’s just something about a well manicured lawn.
The lawn at my cottage is where I find peace. Despite the size of my lawn, which takes about two and half hours to mow, I’ve ignored friends’ urgings to buy a tractor, preferring instead to walk behind my push mower, creating my art.
The noise of the mower allows me to block out the world. Our two-year-old black lab Tilly even leaves me alone, knowing she’ll have play time once I’m done. That’s a change from our last black lab and her frisbee fixation. As soon as Stella would hear my mower start up, she would retrieve her frisbee and drop it in the path of my mower, so that I’d have to stop the machine and toss the darned thing out of the way. This would go on until Stella tired of it, which was usually just shy of total exhaustion.
There’s another reason why I’ve eschewed the convenience of a tractor, and that’s my need for exercise. While Paul Simon’s lyrical query “Why am I soft in the middle?” is meant as an exploration of the vulnerability associated with a mid-life crisis, my concerns of a soft middle are much less abstract. Fact is – in my present condition – I’m cut like a bag of milk; my abs having been shrouded from public view for decades like some sort of anatomical witness protection program.
But more than the peaceful solitude and the health benefits, mowing is my only artistic outlet other than, I suppose, writing (though I’ll leave you the reader to judge the merits of that). I’m not exactly creating a masterpiece, though I’m very particular about my method.
I’ve got my property divided into segments, always mowing these in the same order, with the goal of creating perfectly straight parallel lines, beginning with four passes around the perimeter of each segment, so that there’s an area large enough to turn the mower without compromising the pattern. (That’s another reason I don’t like a tractor. It takes too much room to turn those suckers.)
Once finished, I will push the mower back along the perimeter before connecting with my next segment. It may seem a tad punctilious (much like that word!), but the result is extremely self-satisfying, especially if enjoyed with a much-deserved cold beer.