Rites of Passage and the Art of Lawn Mowing

When I was a young lad.
too small to be safe with anything sharp,
I used to sit in the backyard in the summer,
and watch my father mow the lawn.

For me,
as a small boy,
it was a beautiful and exquisite joy to do this.
So many aspects for my little mind to soak in.
It was dad and me.
It was our job.
Well, it was his job.
And the process was like a military manoeuvre.

First clear the yard of bikes and balls and things left around.
The dog droppings were mine to deal with.
Then the shed was opened
and the mower and catcher wheeled out.
Crouching to check the plugs and petrol.
Muttering.
Trip to the service station to get more fuel.
Coin pumps in those days.
Back to the yard.
Muttering again.
Something about knees.
Hat on, sunglasses perched, beer on the fence.
Yank the cord.
Again.
Again.
Check the plugs and open the choke.
Again.
Farumparumparumparumpa!
And it began.

Pushing the beast up and down in straight lines.
The sound deafening, the smell of the exhaust - sweet and invigorating.
Up and down.
Up and down.
Slightly overlapping the edge of the last line to keep it neat.
Up and down.
Stop for a drink.
Up and down.
The sound of a full catcher.
The aroma of the cut grass flowing outwards.
The grunting walk to empty the clippings onto the compost heap.
This was also my job - to keep the pile neat and together.
I embraced the responsibility.
Engine still on.
Catcher back in place.
And off again.

He mowed with gusto.
I would watch from the side, a safe distance from flying stones.
Not too close.
"You don't want to cut your feet off..."
"I knew a boy who lost all his toes...."
"Get me another beer son!"
I eagerly yearned to be old enough to do this task.
I was a willing helper and an obedient servant.
I was old enough to tend the sweet, cut blades.
I made sure my hands and feet were covered in them.
To feel the heat and embrace its earthiness.
When he wasn't looking,
I'd dive my arms into the centre of the grass pile.
Who can even begin to describe that feeling?

The rows finally finished.
The sound of the mower chugging down to a stop.
Job done.
Mower cleaned and wiped.
Shed shut.
The yard looked ordered and renewed.
It greeted our eyes with a satisfying completeness.
The smell of grass and dirt and sweat was intoxicating.

My father would stand on the patio edge,
final beer in hand as he surveyed his efforts.
He was pleased and always smiled.
He would call Mum outside when the job was done.
She would arrive, hands covered in flour.
Smiling at me.
"You did a good job luv" she'd always say to him.
Wise woman.
She knew what he needed to hear.
He just wanted her to see it.
To see what he had done.
Nothing more.
I'd stand beside him as if I had mowed as well.
"When you're older, you'll get to do this." he'd say to me.
"Just make sure you get the lines straight."
"And always get two-stroke - never that other rubbish."

I'd just stand there with him until the beer was done.
And so was he.
"Time to get cleaned up."
We were finished.

On my tenth birthday he handed over the task.
Like an apprentice he made sure I was ready and knew all that needed to be done.
After many attempts,
and guiding talks and demonstrations,
the reign of the lawn was mine.
I took it all in my stride.
Towelling hat tight on my head,
Cordial on the fence.
I was charged to reflect the master's handiwork.

He'd stand on the patio watching me work.
Offering advice,
but not too much.
He let me learn things myself.
Just a few tips.
By the time I turned eleven years old 
he would just read the paper as I mowed.
Not even glancing up until it was finished.
He'd check the job.
Hand on my shoulder.
And we'd stand there to gaze out on the lawn.
Mum was called.
Compliments made.
Time to wash up.

I learnt a lot about my dad and life through mowing.
By the time I had left home, my younger brothers had taken over the task.
Each one taken through the processes as I had been before them.
By this time Dad had bought a whipper-snipper and blower.
The bastard.

My memories of these days are heady and full.
And I am amazed at how a simple task
could create a lifelong bond between he and I 
and cause me now to weep at these memories.
I have passed the torch over to my boys.
It is a different age.
But grass still grows as grass always has.
And it has to be mowed.
The task is always ongoing.
It never ends.
And even after a storm,
the new growth emerges.

Isn't that the stuff of life?