Zen Mowing

I try to mow along the roadside when nobody's looking. On this Sunday afternoon, however, while maneuvering our self-propelled push mower around the mail and paper boxes across from our driveway, I just refused to look up if cars had the nerve to pass by. Also, wore my sunglasses in hopes of disguising my identity as the mad lawn-mowing woman on Great Northern Road.

Sand and rocks flew every which way as the mower reluctantly obliged my efforts to push it over boulders and ugly weeded areas where no mower had gone before. Suddenly, I sensed the presence of two helmeted invaders, pedaling their way north around the S-curve where our driveway meets the road. At that very moment, the lawnmower croaked while encountering a stubborn dirt clod.

I was caught, with hands clutching the mower and nowhere to run. I feigned courtesy.

"Didn't want to have any of these rocks hit you," I announced as the bikers came closer. Then, I realized I'd really been caught. I KNEW these people, and THEY knew me. In fact, Ed and Jeannie Bock knew me well enough that they wasted no time reporting to their son Jeff in California that they'd seen Marianne out doing her Zen mowing.

What else could it be? Who would get into the ritual of mowing so much that they'd risk loss of life from roadside mower explosions or even face the public embarrassment of having friends and strangers wonder if that lady with the lawnmower has lost her mind?

I admit to being a crazed lawnmoweress. Keeping grass neatly trimmed has been an addiction of mine for years. I've got the dead mowers to prove it.

"I like a nice lawn," I announced to Ed and Jeannie that day, as they continued to stare skeptically at the sandy area where I was mowing.

"If you look closely, you'll see clover growing," I added.

They inched their bikes toward where I stood.

"Oh yeah, I can see it," Ed finally agreed. He's a trained psychologist who quickly recognizes insanity when he sees it.

The one-quarter-inch-high seeding wasn't quite ready for its first trim, but isolated, tall spears of nondescript grass and occasional clumps of budding tansey sprigs in the midst of the planting project had disordered my critical eye for neatness every time I'd grabbed the paper or mail the past few days.

These blights on my new lawnscape had to be dealt with that Sunday, so that's why they had caught me at that very spot with my tired mower. And that's why Ed and Jeannie simply humored me as I assured them the new yellow clover planting would be beautiful soon. I even suggested they come back in a few weeks to check it out.

I really don't know if I should enter a 12-step program for lawn-mowing addiction, but I do know I spend an inordinate amount of time each spring, summer and fall, manicuring a vast terrain of growing grass. My three-times-weekly mowing intinerary extends from our house to the south across the driveway, even into the Coxes' field to the west, to the Quest property on the north, and, most recently, onto the railroad property across the road.

Everybody's got a fixation, I guess. In my case, my "zen" mowing results in well-kept rural beauty. Furthermore, my addiction doesn't hurt anyone unless they happen to get hit by a stray boulder if they're at the wrong place during my mowing time.