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.