When I was a little kid, I wanted to mow the lawn. It seemed the adult thing to do, so naturally I aspired to it. Being too young at first, I was assigned the task of sweeping the grass from the sidewalk. It felt helpful to do, though it seemed to take forever (daydreaming about lightsabers and spaceships can really slow a boy down). One must pay their dues before moving up to the power equipment. It wasn’t long before it became a dreaded boring chore.
Decades later, Farley and I bought our first house, and it had a small front lawn. After filling in the craters from where the previous owner extracted valuable palm trees and reseeding the rolled sod with drought-resistant fescue, it soon came time for the first mowing. We did not have a mower, so the job was done with a corded weed whacker, and it was a bit messy. Upon finishing I was confronted with an old sight — grass on the sidewalk. This unsightly mess can’t be left as-is, but luckily I knew just what to do. Broom in hand, I swept my first sidewalk in a good long while and felt a sense of responsibility and pride in it. It was my grass, my job to do; I felt lucky to have such a place. It was a pleasure to sweep.
This yard seemed like hard work at the time.
Until about the third time, and then it was just a chore again. I was actually glad that half the grass died each summer, once we got tired of fixing the sprinkler system every year and turned the dang water off once and for all. Less mowing, less sweeping, more time for lightsabers and spaceships.
But by this time, sci-if daydreams were turning into farm fantasies. Ten years later, where do we find ourselves? Proud owners of over 30 acres of grass. Grass for days and days. Grass that stays wet almost all year. Grass that grows over my head. Grass grass grass. While waiting our turn for a local haymaker to come cut it, I work my way outward with the tractor, brush hogging down a section here, a section there. It gets chopped up finer than hay, but is still useful if you’re willing to work for it. Mulching, litter for bird runs, compost for next year’s garden; it’s always satisfying to know there are some thin strips of carbon on hand for this and that. Working one step at a time, I windrow the cut grass by hand with a pitch fork, working one side, then the other, then pushing it all into a pile that seems too small for the expense of effort paid. It is hard, itchy work.
2020: Haying was late, but at least it happened.
I’ve done this countless times by now, but in the cool of the evening it never feels like a chore. There’s a rhythm to it you can lose yourself in. Up and back. Up and back. Up, and back. There are baby pigs now, grunting softly behind me as they explore their new world. Teenage geese, already wiser in the matters of grass than I, philosophize on its finer points in honks and chitters as the sun sinks. One of them has a limp — he bit a dog on the butt and got taught a lesson the hard way. He practices tree pose to rest his leg bite and sits out most of the debate tonight, muttering occasional agreement and dissent with his fellows.
I finish my pile, pull a splinter from my thumb, and as I make my way over to check on the goose, I see the silver lining under my feet: no sidewalks to sweep.
