The Yard

"Mowing the Lawn-Half-Cut" by Halley from Boston - Flickr. Licensed under CC BY 2.0 via Wikimedia Commons - (Source) 

The ceremonial first cutting of the grass has come.

And gone.

It was not as it once was.

This time, I did not participate...

Earlier...

It was last weekend, Saturday, though it might have been Friday. Every other weekend is a three-day weekend. I know that sounds good, but there's a price to pay for such luxury and...

Yes, I digress.

I was gazing out the front door at my vast holdings front lawn, noting that it was getting all green and in need of cutting. I realized that soon, but hold thought one moment. What is yon scrap of paper wedged in front door?

Retrieving the paper and unfolding it as if I had found the Dead Sea scrolls themselves, I read the inscription thereon...

For help with lawn mowing, raking leaves, snow shoveling,and other yard work call...

I read the words and noted the price of such services, cheap and well within my means. So I showed the parchment to The Missus Herself...

And she said, "We should call this guy, have him come give us an estimate."

I gazed in wonder at m'lady, surely she was not ready to release me from being shackled to the mower every weekend, toiling in the hot sun and...

"It would be worth the money to not have to listen to you whine about cutting the grass every weekend." She said, finishing her thought.

Was I offended by her characterization of my valid complaints and concerns as "whining"? No, not at all, 'tis a matter of perspective I reckon. My concerns with having to spend time of a weekend in anything other than idle leisure may indeed sound like "whining" to one who has never been slave to the Lawn-Boy or the Briggs & Stratton as I have been since my youth.

To be released from such bondage was something I had dreamt of since our days of apartment dwelling where the minions of the land lord took care of the yard work. Now I could return to loftier purpose, such as crafting stories to entertain you here. Perhaps reading some ancient tome of historical deeds.

Or simply drinking beer and watching a ball game.

To each his own.

So now we have a guy who cuts our grass. It does not cost me that much and provides the young lad with employment and a bit of pocket money. It is something of a win-win-win.

He gets money to do the job I no longer have to deal with, freeing my time for other things.

And of course, The Missus Herself no longer has to listen to Yours Truly "whine" about mowing the lawn.

Today, I surveyed the freshly cut grass. Trim and well-kept and (most importantly) completed in time for the weekend. It was good to know that I would not be the one chasing the lawn mower all summer.

Then again, am I getting too old for this sort of thing? While I have never loved mowing the lawn, I have never hated it either. Is this a sign of advancing decrepitude that I must hire someone to maintain my yard?

Why have a yard at all?

Well, we need something to surround all those flower beds.

Did any of you know that Carl Sandburg wrote a poem about grass? A pretty good one too, says I. What say you?

Grass
by Carl Sandburg
Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo.
Shovel them under and let me work—
                                          I am the grass; I cover all.

And pile them high at Gettysburg
And pile them high at Ypres and Verdun.
Shovel them under and let me work.
Two years, ten years, and passengers ask the conductor:
                                          What place is this?
                                          Where are we now?
                                          I am the grass.
                                          Let me work.
(Source)