My neighbor Chauncey has a lawn so flawless it could make Martha Stewart claw her own eyes out. Calm guy. Polite. Probably wears camo boxers. For reasons unknown, he decided I was his personal community service project. Diversity outreach, I think. Twice a week, he chases me up a steep hill under the guise of high-intensity-interval training. To the casual observer, it looks like a furious white man hunting down the immigrant who stole his leaf blower.
He also introduced me to the gospel of grass-and-clover-seeded lawns and the sacred garden weasel. I obeyed. Bought the weasel. Spread the seeds by hand like it was holy communion. Weaseled it in. A few weeks later: lush, green, glorious. Martha who?
Then Chauncey said it was time to mow.
I now have the trappings of suburban aristocracy: a battery-powered mower and a matching snow blower. Same modular battery. Same ‘I’ve arrived’ shade of green. I charged up, slotted it in, and got to work.
It was tough to push, but it growled like a manly machine and flung green chunks across the yard like it meant business. I was sweating like a Ford ad. The cut was uneven, but I chalked it up to the rain.
Later, Chauncey stopped by. I proudly gave him the grand tour. He scratched his chin and suggested I sharpen the mower blades. I nodded like a man committed to stop weaponizing incompetence.
Then he vanished into my garage. I found him bent over my snow blower.
“These blades could use sharpening,” he said.
“That’s not my mower,” I replied.
He turned. “This is what you used to mow?”
And that’s when it hit me.
I had mowed my entire lawn… with a snow blower.
Looking forward to reading about when you clear snow with your lawn mower!