Getting high on grass

(Not my actual lawn)

When it comes to lawn care, there are two types of homeowners: those who pay others to do the work; and masochists.

I came to this realization one recent Monday morning, following a Sunday of yard work, when I could barely raise my arms and my legs felt like I was walking in quicksand. Yet I couldn't stop admiring the lines in my freshly cut grass nor thinking about what I would do differently next time.

That I would develop a green pinky (I'm trying to stay humble and earn my green thumb) kind of surprised me. The first time I mowed the lawn at our house was the first time I mowed a lawn in my entire life. My mother did the mowing when I was growing up; she would not let anyone touch her lawnmower. If we came back from the beach on a Sunday at 2:30 p.m., she would be mowing by approximately 2:33. It could be 90 degrees, and the lawn looked like a parched putting green because it hadn't rained in 20 days, and she would be pushing that mower.

My wife and I lived in an apartment and then in a townhouse with a postage-stamp-sized front lawn a neighbor graciously cut for us when he cut his own. So when we bought our house, it was finally my turn. On the recommendation of my cousin, I bought an electric lawnmower and trimmer. I assembled them in my basement and charged both batteries. I read the instruction manual and watched a few videos online for best practices.

And then I let everything sit in my basement because it was the middle of February. This proved problematic a couple months later, during the first warm weekend of the year, when I needed to start mowing and had not recharged the battery. It took almost a full day that first time, but by sundown, our lawn was freshly shorn. I felt a tremendous sense of accomplishment.

But here's what I didn't realize about your lawn in the springtime: IT DOESN'T STOP GROWING. Between the rain and the fertilizer, the grass is like a boy going through puberty. And, much like that teenager, I realized pretty soon I'd be whacking much more frequently than I anticipated.

Now, I'm obsessing over the weekend weather forecasts. I sulked one Saturday night when a rain shower passed by, fretting how it would impact the next day's scheduled mow. I'm experimenting with different cut heights for different parts of the lawn, from the marsh-like growth near the back of the yard to that annoying strip of grass between the sidewalk and the street. I observe my neighbors cutting their lawn and note their technique.

But I also see who is behind the lawnmower. There are boys, all arms and legs, fighting to maneuver the machine. There are dads in jeans on a leisurely stroll, pushing mowers older than I am. There's the guy wearing noise-canceling headphones so large it looks like he took a wrong turn from the airport tarmac. The hum of the lawnmower becomes the soundtrack of suburbia on a sunny spring afternoon.

"Most of the people in my mom's group say they hire someone to mow their lawn," my wife told me one day, matter-of-factly.

I was not sure if that was a statement or a hint.

"Well, most guys in the neighborhood don't know what they're missing," I said.

That's when it hit me why I took to mowing the lawn. When you have an-almost-3-year-old who is potty training at her own leisurely pace, when you're a month away from Baby No. 2 and all that means for everyone, when you have demands at work and just the general uncertainties of life, it's satisfying to have a defined goal and a task you can complete and see the results immediately.

The two hours of alone time also is pretty nice.