More flooding means less mowing

Bill Knight column for 6-3, 4 or 5, 2019

We face serious issues: a threatened war in Iran, the possibility of impeaching the U.S. President, and some states’ apparently unconstitutional restrictions on abortions. However, news from the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration that the last 12 months have been the wettest year in the continental United States since record-keeping started in 1895 puts into context selfish but genuine personal resentment.

It's not your imagination; we’re water-logged. Also, it’s not your imagination that Spring’s arrived. As I wrote years ago, Spring’s here not because of the calendar or May temperatures bouncing between freezing and the 80s, or baseball played between rainouts, or graduations and proms, but because of flooded farm fields and inundated yards. Increasingly, lawns demand attention, but with rain almost daily: When?

Apart from annoyance at Grass Shagginess, I really resent rains because I miss mowing.

I was 9 or 10 when Dad trusted me with mowing’s serious equipment and regular work. Before my paper route, mowing offered wages, and the responsibility let me feel mature.

The ritual of clipping millions of blades of grass became enjoyable. When the grass is less wet (this year, “dry” seems a dream), mowing offers exercise for the legs and mind. Relaxed walking through grasses creates a blend of calisthenics, escape and prayer.

When I mow, I sometimes finish a section with no recollection of having maneuvered around fences or fragile flowers (a practice that prepared me for a job as a teen-aged ‘tractor jockey” for a local farmer).

Distractions can be startling, too. One afternoon I realized a neighbor lady was standing next door and listening to my out-loud singing as Dad’s old Briggs & Stratton failed to drown me out, and I was about 12 when I almost severed a toe by rushing to finish the yard so I could go to the movies with a pal waiting nearby.

Generally, though, mowing has offered relief from hectic hours of labor – or leisure. Like a massage, mowing is a rubdown for the brain. There aren’t debates while mowing; just Nature. (OK: It’s not exactly natural. Mowing is a modest part of “human activity” we all know contributes to climate change. Unless circumstances force me to use my back-up rotary push mower, the act of mowing depends on a long cord connecting my 18-inch electric Yardworks to the power grid.)

During mowing’s diversion, social issues or community conflicts, injustices or inequities, economic crises or climate catastrophes fade as I breathe the air and feel earth beneath my feet.

Mowing does offer moments to contemplate. Often I find myself finishing the front lawn while daydreaming, thinking, or communing with surroundings in sun and shade: counting how many passes between the gazebo and fountain, saying a novena for ailing friends, guessing the number of rows the mower will slice through the bluegrass between the English ivy-covered pine and the front stoop, noticing squirrels barking at me from nearby limbs to HURRY UP AND GO AWAY, watching birds harvest worms in my wake, watching out for baby bunnies and toads while wondering about weeds and wildflowers…

Apart from recent, seemingly never-ending thunderstorms, mowing reminds us of seasons: Lawns grow lush, then suffer lulling heat or, increasingly, drought, followed by autumn’s coming cool and winter, when grass turns yellow and dry and dies.

But I miss mowing NOW.

Messing with a sump pump doesn’t compete.