It’s getting to be about time to put the lawnmower away for the winter, and thank goodness for that. Thank goodness we still have a mower to put away. Most of all, thank goodness the temptation to use it will be locked up for a full five months.
Here’s the thing: Farmers are lawnmower destroyers. I hate to say it, but it’s true. I have a sample size of one farmer that proves it. What I don’t understand is the reason for it. A mower is a single-blade machine that cuts grass, for crying out loud. My toaster is more complex. Why can’t we keep just one of them running?
Of course, I recognize that decorative grass is not a farmer’s first priority; our lawn doesn’t exactly rank high on Dave’s to-do list. Our front lawn has been full of thistle and puncture weed for years. When I grouch to Dave about it, he hardly hears me. “It’s fine, Michele. It’s not like anyone uses that part of the lawn anyway.” The innocence of the mind of a man can be astonishing.
“Dave, I think we should just kill the whole front lawn and start again. Start fresh.”
“What? No need to do that, Michele! I’ll just hit your weeds with a round or two of chemical, and that will take care of them. Easiest thing in the world.”
Maybe, but I’ll probably never know, because 22 years in, our lawn is still an inverted pincushion.
Weeds or not, all I really wanted this summer was to get the grass mowed down before we had to bale it. For reasons that I guess are beyond my security clearance, our riding lawnmower has been MIA for 10 months. Makes me suspicious that there’s something Dave isn’t telling me. Meanwhile, he lent our push mower to some other family clear last year. I waited over a month for it to come back before he told me he was hoping they’d keep it. “It was about worn out anyway, and I’m planning on getting a new one.”
I’ve always kind of wanted an electric mower. Supposedly, they are as powerful as gas engines now. David just scoffs at the idea, “Our lawn is too much lawn for an electric mower.” He wears that belief like a badge of honor. Maybe he’s right, but when I found out that no one around here fixes electric mowers – that we would have to mail it back to the manufacturer for repair – it was deal off for me anyway. I pretty much need a mower-mechanic to live in-house.
Of course, Dave already had in mind exactly what he was looking for. He wanted an industrial mower with a metal deck. “None of those plastic parts,” he said. So for Father’s Day, we went shopping and got plenty discouraged by all the plastic. Finally, though, we found one that fit the bill. Metal body, industrial-grade blade, gas engine – it even had a three-year warranty on parts with normal wear. Normal wear, right. That’s a fantasy in print if ever there was one.
When we got the mower home, Dave pulled the starter cord and the new and shiny motor sputtered to life. He was as happy as a goat. The healthy roar of the engine held nothing but promise for him – the hope of a new day, a new life, a new chance. He buzzed around the yard at high speed, laying waste to grass left and right. "Michele, this mower has some pep to it – it moves right along.” He zipped around the perimeter, mowed at artistic angles and marveled at the sharpness of the blade. I just held my tongue. As long as he kept to the grass and thistle, we were going to be just fine. But I knew the honeymoon couldn’t last forever. It never does.
A week or so later, David was back at it, and I was pulling weeds in the garden. My kids keep getting employed in the summer, and it has put a real damper on who is available to mow and garden around here. I was busy trying to extricate wild geranium from between the tomatoes when I heard the sickening sound of metal hitting metal. I didn’t even have to look up to know what had happened. Dave had left the lawn and gone rogue. He was trying to mow the barrow pit again.
This is my theory: When your normal ride is a tractor, a farmer just can’t power down to the capacities of a smaller machine. It’s like driving velocitation – a word I just looked up, by the way. After driving the freeway at 80 miles an hour, it’s hard to realize how fast you’re going when you hit the 35-mph zone in town. The exact same thing happens with Dave. He mows all the time with an implement that can wage war on every borrow pit, lane and ditch bank on this place. He can mow down anything but boulders. My guess is that he has permanently acclimated to that level of power. In short, he just can’t remember that a lawnmower is not a farm mower. He can’t keep himself on the lawn. When he sees something growing that needs mowing, he takes off into the brush, or weeds, or 3-foot kochia, and it spells trouble every time. “David,” I’ll say, “A lawnmower is not a stump grinder! It’s not a rock saw!” But I’m talking to myself.
High weeds are the biggest danger. I don’t care how careful we think we are; there’s always something metal – a garden hoe, pliers, a landscaping staple – left in the tall grass, and it’s going to sound like hell on earth when it’s discovered by the mower blade. Maybe I just need to keep a dozen blades on hand, so I can replace them like the blades of a utility knife.
Two months into having the new machine, Dave slumped into the kitchen where I was washing dishes. He was worn down from his latest attempt at keeping us and our grass civilized. “Michele, I’ve just got to accept the truth. Our lawn requires a commercial machine. A general-purpose mower’s just not going to cut it.”
“And how much is that going to run us, Dave?”
When he gave me a number, I about dropped my teeth. Apparently, Dave has price velocitation too. I think it’s high time for me to take matters into my own hands. I’m heading out to price some top-of-the-line, commercial-grade goats.
