Ding-Dong, The Grass is Dead

I woke up yesterday morning to my beautiful wife announcing the most glorious news of the year: Snow, Snow, Snow. This is the annual highlight I long for from that moment every Spring when I first crank up that infernal green slave-master in my backyard. Yes, friends, today is a wonderful day. The grass is dead.

As some of you know, I am an avid indoorsman, a lover of all activities coinciding with conditioned air. I trace it back to my upbringing in Texas. It's hot in Texas. Have you ever heard someone say, "Well, it's hot, but at least its a dry heat," implying that somehow the dryness makes it more tolerable? These poor fools must have never been to Texas, because if they had, they would never say such a silly thing. The heat in Texas is as dry as brimstone, but it will still make you wish you had never been born. Why do all the illegals choose Arizona, New Mexico, and Nevada as their doorway to a better life? Because even Mexicans can't stand the heat in Texas.

I was younger than most when my dad shouldered me with the lawn mowing responsibilities. My grandfather had bought us this huge beast of a riding lawnmower. I'll never forget that machine. Dad explained that the right pedal was the "go," and the left one was the "mow." I had to stand on them simultaneously while pulling up on the steering wheel for leverage. It required a posture similar to water skiing. After a quick heads-up about rattlesnakes, dad fired 'er up and sent me on my way. The first time all the other men in the neighborhood saw this toddler making laps, and my dad drinking a sweating glass of iced tea on the porch swing, they all at once summoned their own sons to see if they, too, had been blessed with a mowing prodigy. When I was half-way done with the front yard my mom brought me a sippy cup of Gatorade and lay me down on the freshly cut grass to change my diaper.

Because of all the attention I was getting, Dad had to start making me mow at night until I was a little older. The child services people work a very strict 8 to 5. Dad figured as long as I waited until 7, we (he) were safe.

When I finally began to mow during the day on a regular basis, I must have been about 8 years old. That is when the seeds of hatred for the outdoors were sown in my heart. You see, I found that the discomfort of the Texas heat was compounded by a little problem I have - I'm a sweater. I don't mean that I am a winter garment, but someone who sweats often and profusely with or without a good reason. Two minutes into the mow I looked like I'd been given a swirly.

You know, I have to wonder if it was the Texas heat that made me a heavy sweater, rather than yet another of my dad's undesirable recessive traits. It may be that Texas is so hot that my sweat glands will be playing catch-up for the rest of my life. Either way, I now associate mowing with blistering heat and a socially-handicapping propensity to sweat.

That's why today I consider the grass in my yard to be my mortal enemy who for 8 months of the year owns me, forcing me out of my element into the harsh outer world. The agony of mowing is even worse now since I'm in far worse physical shape than I was back then. The neighbors still watch me mow but not for the same reason. They gather together across the street and place not-so-friendly wagers on how long it will take me to wither.

"I've got ten that says he makes it half an hour this time before he lays down in the garage."

"Are you nuts? It's 89 degrees and there's no wind. If he goes twenty it'll be on the news."

"Yeah, but look - he's starting on the big hill while he's fresh. Statistically, he always does better when he starts on that side."

"But not when he's wearing a black t-shirt."

"Oh, yeah."

"You gotta trust me - I'm up 600 bucks this year. Look - he hasn't even made one full pass and he's already heaving. Someone's taking a ride in an ambulance today."

I've already decided that when the kids are grown and gone, my wife and I are going to either purchase a modest condo in Antarctica or buy a dinghy and sail the seven seas for the rest of our days, far away from the man-made Hades that is the suburban lawn culture. I do not belong here.

If I could sow my property with salt I'd do it in a heartbeat. What a glorious thing a gravel pit or AstroTurf lawn would be. But the city and my wife insist on actual grass. All I know is that all the while I'm cutting the grass, God's words to Adam in Genesis 3 ring in my head like a death knell: "Cursed is the ground because of you." Indeed.

So, of course, winter is my time. It's the four months of the year when the rest of the population is almost as white as I am, and the only time I go outside is to get into my car. If you'll excuse me, my winter wonderland has arrived and I've got some living to do. Ding-Dong, the grass is dead.