It's always greener

Dear You,

So there I was, walking back and forth behind my mower, wondering why I love cutting the grass so much. So much, in fact, that annually I watch from my Winter perspective in Florida for news that the snow is melting and revealing the new Spring crop, and I hasten back to the North to begin the harvest, well ahead of many of my Snowbird neighbors.

Perhaps it's because it is by far the most pleasurable of my To-Do Things Around The House. Does anyone really enjoy cleaning the basement or the garage? Paying the bills or shampooing a carpet? Each swath shows accomplishment and progress toward completion. And that smell!

I've even considered the act to be an ancient echo of my agrarian roots. I won't plant a garden -- not so long as a grocery story is within a day's drive! No tilling and toiling for me, nosiree. Still, the urge to keep that grass at croquet-playing level is truly primal.

In addition, I rather like that throbbing that goes up my arms, along with the motorcycle-level of sound that lingers in my ears even after I've come back inside. I like waving at my neighbors on both sides of my line, and I feel smug because they're perched on their riding machines . . . the wimps!

Maybe I'll never really understand it. What I know is how I feel at this moment, showered and in fresh clothes after an hour out there. As I type this, I'm wondering if it will rain this weekend, enough to make it necessary to get back behind my mower in a couple of days. I hope so.