Monday, December 21, 2009

The Smell of Fresh Cut Grass

I like to mow the lawn.

To some its a chore that's accomplished begrudingly, but for me its one of the few opportunities I have to do something completely mindless. Not that mowing can be done in a mentally vegetative state - you do have to keep your wits about you, less accidental amputation will result - but it is one of those activities where all of my worries vanish. Even if it is only for a few ticks of the clock.

It is my Saturday routine. About 10:00 a.m. I'll walk the yard for errant clutter, head to the garage, gas up the Toro, and fire it up. There's a refreshing sense of calm as the machine sputters to life, pukes a cloud of exhaust, and hits it stride. I recently heard a enviro-head on TV talking about the carbon footprint of all the mowers in America - it made me chuckle because on Saturdays I guess I'm just not that concerned about ice floes breaking loose in Greenland. It is, after all, mowing time. Come hell or melting ice caps.

There is a certain precision about it; ensuring the rows are nicely parallel, the pattern looks good from the street, the sidewalk and driveway trimmed to a crisp edge. Now I know that sounds anal retentive. Actually, very anal retentive. I'm proud of my yard and I want it to look just right. A person's yard, I think, is an extension of themself. So there you have it - I am an anal retentive perfectionist. About my yard, at least.

But there's more to it than my sense of landscaping perfection. Mowing the yard is a simple pleasure. As a matter of fact (my fact, I suppose), it is one of the simplest pleasures that exist. People need simple pleasures - they keep people sane and help them cope with a horribly troubled and complex reality. Some people knit scarves, read novels, or any myriad of activities in which they can lose themselves for a brief period of time. For me, its mowing.

Our lives have become hyper. Not just busy, but hyper busy. Work, activities, organizations, church (temple, mosque, whatever), school, meetings, schedules all compete for our time. With the great enabler and facilitator mindlessly attached at our hips (thanks, AT&T), we get lost in our schedules and forget how quickly it all passes by. Our attention seems in great demand by everything except those things that are really important - like for instance, enjoying the simple things. But to each his own. Some groove on the business of busyness. Me? Not so much.

At the end, the best thing is the fruit of my labor. The smell of fresh cut grass.

Sunday, December 20, 2009

The Great Debate

It's the best time of the year again. Christmas.

My family and I enjoy this holiday more than any other and we usually go all out - major league tree, greenery on the mantle, Griswoldesque lights on the house, the whole shebang. We do our best to keep things measured with the real purpose of the celebration - which, after all, is the point of everything. But I have to admit that we take advantage of our Anglo-Saxon roots and get engrossed in the symbolic traditions. Maybe dunked head first into the symbolic traditions is a better way of saying it.

Growing up, our parents (I have two older brothers) raised us with the good sense of finding a beautiful work of nature, tearing it from God's earth, and planting it in a cold, steel stand filled with sugar water. Of course it took three days for the sap to wear off of my hands after helping to raise the corpse-tree, but it was well worth the effort. You can't beat the scent of a live, albeit newly deceased, Christmas tree.

As my wife and I started a family of our own, we brought our families' traditions along for the ride. One of my additions to the smorgasbord was the live Christmas tree. "I won't have it any other way...we've gotta have a live tree." After all - what's the point if you don't get sap on your hands around the holidays? Year after year, we made our trek to the nearest tree lot to pick out the annual "victim." I love tree lots - row after row of God's finest, farm-raised fir and spruce under the yellowish hue of incandescent bulbs hanging from ten foot two-by-twos temporarily stuck into the ground.

After some time though, the annual trip became more of chore. Kind of like painting the house, only without the smell of latex and fear of ladders. So we made a fateful decision. A life altering decision. It was time to cross over the dark side...and buy a fake tree.

The first fake tree was, well, fake. It smelled like polyvinyl chloride and the needles felt like construction paper. Sing it with me: "Oh tannenbaum, Oh tannenbaum, how smelly are your branches." I told myself that I'd get used to it.

My wife and I found that there are some advantages to an impostor spruce: you don't have to refill the stand with sugar water every few days, there isn't a trail of needles through the house upon entry and exit, and the break even period is about two years (that's my management side coming out). But the needles still shed, which kind of surprised me. On the other hand, after the PVC smell subsides, there isn't a lasting scent. To compensate, we started burning pine scented candles in the living room.

Fake trees are convenient. They are cost effective. They look perfect. But I miss breaking out the bow saw and hacking off the bottom six inches of the trunk, turning the tree to hide flat spots, and the tree sap on my hands. I do miss the tree sap so.

In the end, it is simply a matter of preference. We chose to side with convenience, cost effectiveness, and perfection. Our fake tree is easy (really easy since we upgraded to the one with built in lights) and consistent. It is clean, neat, and hassle free.

But I miss the mess. I miss the trip to the tree lots and their yellow hued lights. I miss the tree sap.

The first...

The first. Kind of catchy in a simplistic, non-committal sort of way.

As I start this new adventure some self-imposed rules are in order. After all, I need some guidelines to work by - it's just the way I'm built.

1. Be honest. No one likes a liar.
2. The editor's on vacation. Two words: spell check.
3. If you try to be funny, you won't be. Just ask Keith Olbermann.


So that's it, three easy things to remember. I can handle three things.

I had a boss that once said "...if you try and remember more than five things at a time, you'll end up forgetting most of them." And that is why I create lists - lists for work, lists for the grocery store, lists for things that need to be done around the house. Even with all my lists, I still forget things - much to the amusement of my lovely wife.

But there are five things on the "big list" that I don't forget.
1. Every day is a blessing from God. If you wake up, breathe in and out and your feet hit the floor, its going to be a good day.
2. There's nothing more important than God and my family.
3. I am blessed to live in the United States.
4. Reckless words pierce like a sword.
5. Your children are only five once.