Date: Fri 05-Jul-1996

Publication: Bee

Author: TOMW

Illustration: I

Quick Words:

Wyatt-Column-Lawnmower

Full Text:

Wyatt On Sports/Lawnmower Column

I put together my new lawnmower last week, with all the zeal of a kid at

Christmas, my heart pumping as I tightened down one bolt after another,

purposely refusing to consult with the enclosed directions as though I were

Tom " The Tool Man " Taylor. And when I finished with that, I did the same

with my new weed whacker.

It was past seven o'clock by the time I had finished assembling my new toys,

but I cranked them up and put them to the test on my first lawn at my first

home anyway, working well past dark.

What does mowing the lawn have to do with sports, you're wondering?

Just ask any kid who ex's lawn mowing off of his list of chores once-a-week.

I hadn't handled a lawnmower in years - having enjoyed condo and apartment

living for the past several - and I thought about my childhood and all the

grass I once cut as I went about my own lawn, slowly passing and

double-passing each row with care that I had never before taken.

When I was a kid, you see, mowing the lawn was something that I always had to

do before I could do something else, namely play. " Dad, I'm going out to play

baseball, be home later! "

" AFTER YOU MOW THE LAWN!!! "

" I'll do it when I get home! "

" YOU'LL DO IT NOW! "

This was a weekly argument and one that I would always lose. Well, almost

always. My wife suggested that we hire somebody to do our lawn, and pay thirty

five bucks a crack. I'd have no part of it.

Now that it's my lawn and my house, firing up the old mower doesn't seem to be

nearly as painful as it once was to do.

As a boy, the object was to finish the lawn as quickly as possible and do a

job that was just good enough to get by. Half the time I would jog along while

I pushed, never slowing for sticks, rocks, tennis balls, or piles of dog crap.

And areas where the grass was thin, I could skip over altogether. Nobody would

notice. Now I found myself actually laying down in the grass and scanning the

surface to see if I missed any spots. I even drove over some patches three and

four times.

Each time I needed to start my new mower I'd just give the chord one brisk

pull and it would rev right up.

As a kid it seemed like it took multiple pulls every time. My hand would

become red and sore tugging and pulling at the rope, struggling to start a

damned machine that I didn't want to start in the first place.

That's when the ideas started.

I soon figured out that I couldn't mow the lawn if the mower wouldn't start.

So through my early years I came up with endless ways to sabotage my father's

lawnmower, each idea more ingenious than the last.

I'd stand and watch with false concern as my father would flail away, cursing

and tugging, pulling and hollering. Each time he yanked, the engine would give

that initial gurgle, as though it were going to kick in, but unless he

unhooked the gas line and took out the little piece of crayon that I stuffed

in there, it was never going to.

Unless my father noticed the tiny piece of gum wrapper that I slid into the

top of the spark plug, I was going to get to play in that baseball game after

all. " See you later dad! " " If you can get it working, I'll cut the lawn

when I get home. "

Of course I'd eventually take out the crayon and mow the lawn. That was one

trick that I just couldn't let him discover and one battle I could never win.

I had all kinds of different ways I'd cut the grass. On my Wiffleball field in

our side yard I'd lower the blade to cut out the baselines until, of course,

they became dirt paths. I even once attempted making a golfing green, which

didn't exactly pan out.

I always hated how cutting the lawn would turn my white sneakers all green and

back then I used to wear my favorite kicks until they'd rot off my feet. So

sometimes - despite my father's stories of the kid from his old neighborhood

who cut his foot off with the lawnmower - I'd do it barefoot. Granted, my feet

turned green when I did. But what kid cares about dirty feet?

Eventually, my little brother Jeff was old enough to mow the lawn and my task

was cut down to every-other week. Then there was Jason. He was three years

younger than Jeff, six younger than I, and Jason wanted to mow the lawn in the

worst way. Like Tom Sawyer, who had to whitewash the fence, I made Jason think

that lawnmowing was the best thing going.

By the time he was old enough to it, ten or so, I was always able to pawn the

chore off on my little brother Jason.

" How could I have hated this so much? " I thought as I worked my way

back-and-forth and up-and-down even the steepest of inclines. This is great!

" Talk to me in a few years, " my home owning, lawnmowing friends tell me. But

the way I figure, by the time I get tired of cutting the lawn, I'll have my

own kids to do it.

Oh, I'm sure they'll come up with a few tricks to get out of lawnmowing if

they're anything like their old man.

But they had better get up pretty early in the morning.

I can't wait to see their faces when I reach down and pluck out the crayon.

" Hmm, I wonder how this got in there. "