This world-wide pandemic continued to affect many facets of our lives this summer, prohibiting trips to the beach, vacations, fireworks. Covid 19 did not, however, prevent the grass from growing. Through most of the summer, consistent cycles of rain and heat insured a healthy crop. Ours is a large lawn, and time-consuming, for the lawn mower’s route is far from straight, circling around the serpentine edges of forty gardens. My wife thinks this makes navigating more interesting since there are flowers to view as I mow. Not so — for the objective of the lawn mower is singular – cut it. In spite of the slow and circuitous route, I like mowing the lawn – it’s a mindless, purposeful task that forbids other noises or interruptions. One is not obliged to answer a phone, for example, or run any errands.

The lawn mower, however, has a double-edged blade. Our tractor can be a tool of redemption — there is nothing that pleases the missus like a crisply cut lawn. Successful completion of the task could probably salvage even a missed anniversary — the freshly mown grass accentuating the gardens like a royal red carpet, only green. But the tractor can just as easily be a tool of condemnation. A belligerent bee, an incessant mosquito, an aggressive deer fly — might cause me to become distracted and commit the mortal sin of running over a flower. I take note of the location and after I finish mowing, return to the scene of the crime to remove the evidence. My wife is acutely familiar with every inch of her gardens. If she locates the victim before I can take care of it, I’ll hear the usual lament — why don’t’ you just cut them all down?!? I plead my case, blaming the yellow jacket, the wasp, the white-faced hornet, or whatever caused me to make the fatal cut – Would you rather I be bitten?  She questions why these insects only seem to annoy me when I’m rounding the sharp corners of her gardens. “Coincidence?” she deduces, “I think not.” I find solace in the fact that I’m not the only flower murderer in town. Returning home from visiting friends’ gardens she relays tales of their victims of lawn-mower blindness: “He dug the hole, he put the plant in it, he mulched it, he watered it – how did he manage to run it over the very next day?”

The ultimate lawn mower catastrophe occurred this summer – it broke. Irrevocably. This was less the consequence of at least a decade of cutting grass as it was of cutting rocks, roots, bones, fallen branches, lost toys, mud… you name it. The most ubiquitous symptom of lawn mower blindness: the endless supply of stones, courtesy of Connecticut’s glacial deposits and winter’s frost heaves.  Just when you think you’ve removed all of the rocks that could damage your blade, the mortal enemy emerges. Whenever I relax my guard, my lawn mower loudly informs me – you hit one. After a slew of curse words, I mentally mark the spot and return to dig out the stone, if possible, filling the hole, or gorge, with dirt. Of course, there have been those occasions when hours of excavation proved that the inch of rock protruding from the earth is actually connected to a boulder.

Another symptom of lawn mower blindness – tree roots. Those magnificent maples, pines, birches and oaks can knock my blades off kilter. I’ve shaved more roots than I care to think about, some to the extent that they’re no longer a problem! I have managed to stop the blades on the tractor from contact with the root. Disengagement then becomes the issue. Doing something you obviously shouldn’t have makes you an instant problem solver. Especially since you don’t want to advertise what you did; neighborly assistance, therefore, is out of the question. Of course, your mechanic, the keeper of your dark little secrets, reminds you — take it easy on that tractor…or it will cost you.  I even managed to get stuck in one of those quagmires disguised as a healthy clump of grass. Once stuck, you have to ask some non-judgmental individual to steer the tractor while you push on the receiving end of an old- fashioned mud splattering; and in a rushed effort to rid yourself of the soil you’re encased in, you leave the evidence of your mistake all over the floor.

At any rate, a new tractor was in order.  And true to Covid-form, there were none, tractors joining the ranks of soap and toilet paper. Of course, it broke during the season’s most productive growth, and when ours was finally delivered, the lawn was a virtual meadow.  Shortly afterwards, the storm changed our focus on getting the generator working, and getting in line for gas. And water.  So much for being “the master of my domain” and keeping the grounds orderly! And then the next natural occurrence Covid hasn’t prevented: drought. Now if I can get some rain, I’ll have an excuse to get back on the saddle and cut the grass. To proudly mount my new stead and proclaim – Peonies Beware — Away Silver!

Juan Arriola a.k.a. The Reluctant Gardener