I Never Have to Mow the Lawn Again

I am married to a perfectionist. When he mows, the yard resembles Torrey Pines Golf Course during a championship round, a true art form. After he delicately maneuvers the mower over the rich, green blades, friends comment that he missed his calling to be a stylist; his skills rival Vidal Sassoon.

On the few occasions I mowed the lawn, observers were more likely to recall a haircut given by their grandmother when she placed a bowl on their heads and sheared off any strands extending beyond the edge — using blunt scissors. Even when I tried, the art form left behind was not a Picasso but instead a Charles Schulz cartoon.

So, this chore is relegated to Randy, and I stand-by with a tall glass of iced tea. Our strategy works wonderfully unless he is out of town. On those rare occasions, the responsibility defaults to me. Honestly, I enjoy mowing the lawn. Because we own an acre, the task requires a riding mower with a padded seat and a place to place my lemonade. When given the opportunity, I lather on the sunscreen, connect the earbuds, wear shoes that cover my toes (that’s another story) and go for a ride.

I discovered a problem with the process. While I mow, my body faces forward. Makes sense doesn’t it? Why would I sit backwards on the seat? The manufacturers should install cameras to allow the driver to view behind them; it’s the only way to keep tabs on the progress.

During a past experience, without a camera, I drove forward oblivious to having hit a rock. (Remember I wore headphones so remained deaf to any loud thumps.) It wasn’t until the machine ran out of gas that I climbed off and noticed rather large ruts in the ground and clumps of turf littering the yard. Apparently, the mower’s blade bent and instead of producing a smooth, even effect, the lawn looked . . . well . . . butchered.

I recall standing in the middle of the yard wondering what to do next. Remember my husband is a perfectionist! He hates it when I do not finish a job. Also, he planned to be gone three more days. My thoughts (incorrectly) convinced me to complete the job and the naked patches would grow back in time. I didn’t see it as a big deal.

Randy disagreed when he returned home. Upon his arrival we hugged, caught up on the recent news, and agreed to sit on the patio. He exited the backdoor while I poured us both a drink. When I met him a few moments later, he stood aghast (I think he may have been crying.) and asked, “Why did you rototill the backyard?”

The rest of the conversation I will leave unrecorded as this is a family friendly publication, but we agreed mowing was no longer my responsibility. OK by me.

Then for some reason, months later, after a long day of landscaping, I offered to drive the lawnmower into the garage. And for some reason, he let me. In reflection, I may have been going faster than necessary and the gate should have been open a little wider; however, when I rammed into it, I still believe my response appropriate. I jumped off without ever releasing pressure on the seat and pulled as hard as possible to eliminate further damage.

That monster on wheels didn’t stop! It continued forward motion as I continued to pull backwards. My beloved husband ran to my side, reached down and turned the switch to kill the beast. Innocently I looked up at him to see tears in his eyes. This time he didn’t cry but laughed uncontrollably. (Probably a good sign.) When he composed himself, he asked why I held onto the seat. I explained my attempt to stop any further damage by pulling it back.

After Randy recovered from another bout of uncontrolled laughter, he explained the mower automatic shuts off when pressure is released on the seat. When I hung onto the back, I was in fact propelling it forward.

After that incident, the keys reside in a secret safe place. Only under strict supervision, am I allowed anywhere near the lawnmower. From my point of view, the end result is not punitive; I don’t have to mow the lawn ever again.