A few days ago my wonderful niece in Cincinnati sent me the following text message at 6:29 p.m.: “Sitting on the back porch, enjoying the cool of the evening, the birds and squirrels, the fish and frogs, the breeze bringing in the scent of the freshly moon grass. How’s your day going?”
“Moon grass, huh?” thought I. “Is that like bluegrass, crabgrass, fescue? Is there ‘Martian’ grass on Mars? Did she have two cases of ‘Blue Moon’ iced down for the Super Bowl?” At 6:32 p.m. I received another message: “Mown grass . . . not moon.”
Several years ago I went to the faculty mailbox at the school to which I was assigned to check my mail. Another faculty member was checking her mail at the same time. Each of us had received a copy of the same letter from the principal. The letter opened with the words, “Much grass!” I read this aloud, and asked (also aloud) what in the world that meant?
My mailbox colleague said, “He’s trying to say ‘muchas gracias’ [Spanish for ‘many thanks’] but don’t know how to spell it!” The principal must have had the same Spanish teacher I did, though I definitely didn’t have the same grammar teacher as my mailbox compadre.
All I know about real grass it that it is green, surrounds my house and keeps me from having to walk in mud or dust, depending on the weather.
Some people go to great lengths to maintain a perfectly manicured yard. I’m afraid that has never been a passion for me. Lots of people like to mow so that their lawn shows a pretty geometric pattern. My goal is to cut grass—my long, trapezoid-shaped, narrow seven tenths of an acre with its many obstacles does not readily allow for geometric design. I do like to mow my yard at least once per week, preferably on Saturday so it will look good for The Lord’s Day.
For the most part I enjoy mowing—it is a time when I hear nothing but the mower’s engine. It is a relaxing time. I tell people I do my best thinking on the riding lawnmower, and it is relaxing, except for the dodging of low-hanging tree limbs. My arms look like I’ve lost a knife fight most times after I’ve mowed around the plum and cedar trees in my backyard.
I’ve never experienced good luck with weedeaters. I trim with a push mower, a task that has become much easier since my wife bought me a lighter weight push mower. As with most things in life, the wrong [in this case, mower] can make ordinary tasks so much more burdensome.
Some people detest dandelions in their yards. I love them, partly because they are my favorite color (yellow), but also because they remind me that the cold, gray, dreary winter is on its way out. I enjoy seeing others’ beautiful lawns that look like golf courses—I’ve just never had the time nor been willing to expend the funds to pamper my lawn to that extent. As long as it is mostly green during summer, I’m OK.
Speaking of golf, someone once said, “It's amazing how a golfer who never helps with house or yard work will replace his divots, repair his ball marks, and rake his sand traps.” No hypocrisy here on my part! I don’t golf! If I have an abundance of cut grass left lying in the yard, I sometimes rake it, but only to keep the grass underneath from dying. Dead spots in lawns are not attractive at all. I don’t have the raking problems of some golfers: “The rake is always in the other trap.” My rake is always in my garage shed. No excuse there.
I have had neighbors who wore masks when they mowed. This is a good idea, especially for those of us plagued by allergies and dust. COVID came along, and practically all people had to wear a mask everywhere they went. Masks do have other advantages, as illustrated by the person who said, “When all this pandemic stuff is over, I still plan to wear a mask. It hides the perpetual look of annoyance I have for most people.”
Someone’s grandpa, who was born in 1947, a mere 75 years ago, had this to say about grass: “In my day ‘grass’ was mowed . . . ‘pot’ was something your mother cooked in” . . . [and] ‘coke’ was a cold drink.” I’m not sure even now that marijuana is referred to as “grass” and cocaine as “coke”. More dangerous words such as “meth” have displaced those terms. Marijuana was once referred to as “weed”, but to me “weed” means the green plants that compose the approximately fifty percent of my lawn not covered with grass.
As the old George Jones song says, “Someday my day will come.” I will have that beautiful manicured lawn, at either the condominium, nursing home, funeral home or cemetery to which lays claim to my frame first. They’ve all been in competition as my next place of residence for quite a few years. The beauty of it—I won’t have to buy one gallon of outrageously priced gasoline or quart of oil, crank one engine, dodge one tree, rake one blade of grass or leaf. Never in the Bible have I read anything about lawnmowers or yard work in Heaven. Hallelujah! That sure sounds like my kind of place.
I have no pertinent internet thoughts to leave you with this week, Dear Reader, as I’ve used them all in the article. Next I hope to share with you some phrases from the past that seem to be drifting away from the modern vocabulary.