What’s grass ever done for me?
I dislike mowing lawn. As a boy I grew up on what might be called a “hobby farm” in this day and age. When I was old enough to reach the handles on the lawnmower my father set me and my brother to work. The only rule about mowing the lawn was that we finish by sundown (and not run over too many stumps) so my brother routinely delayed on his portion of the lawn until I took over and just did the whole yard, start to finish. It took about four hours, once a week, and was my least favorite chore.
Today I own a home with a roughly equivalent amount of lawn. Sometimes I regret purchasing this property. Generally the disdain for grass and lawn everywhere, but especially my own, rises from approximately April through October, when I give up and just endure the withering glares from my neighbors at the tall grass encircling the property. Last year I told them I was feeding the bees. It didn’t go over well. “What’s grass ever done for me?” I mutter to myself as I fire up the ancient lawnmower that lurks year-round in my garage. Its blades are blunted, its engine as cranky as I am. I search all over for the gas barrels, the funnels, get the thing loaded up with fuel and outside in the blazing sunlight. The grass has grown an inch since I woke up. It mocks me as I grasp the ripcord; I wish for goats.
Mowing my lawn takes about two hours with a push mower. It’s dusty, dry, hot work. I start behind the shed, work my way out toward the street, up and around the old oak on the back corner. By the time that’s done I have the long hilly stretch to do, and my hands ache. I don’t stop, because if I stop my muscles will cramp up, and soonest started, soonest finished. There are two small apple trees on the hilly bit, and I dodge around the first, mower in front, irritation at the cosmic injustice of tall grass in the back.
If the grass gets too tall, the mower won’t get at it properly, and I’ll have to mow twice. I would sooner set the yard afire; but today the grass is nearly, very nearly too tall to mow. I have to go slow to guarantee the machine’s efficacy. I yawn. The sun shines only on me. I know I’ll have a sunburn by tonight.
Something erupts from the lengthening grass, right before I circle around the second apple tree. It’s tiny, but I immediately know what it is. A baby rabbit! No more than a few weeks old, small enough to sit in the palm of my hand if it were ever possessed of the notion to do so. Right now it’s engaged in the suicide pact all newborn rabbits enter into on the day of their birth. The machine is so loud, its teeth so sharp! Run into it, destroy thyself!
I will have none of it. And the rabbit, if it could clear its head of the cacophanic turmoil brought about by the mower, would probably rather live. I have a split second to act. The arthritis in my hands won’t let them open in time to kill the engine. So over the whole mower goes, onto its side, two wheels in the air. I yank my hands away from the kill-lever and the whole contraption gutters to a stop.
Silence.
Slowly I catch my breath and peer into the well of the mower. There’s no blood, thankfully, which means the rabbit must have swerved aside at the last moment. The mower glares at me accusingly as I look around. Sure enough, in the jungle of grass and optimistic bushes along the side of the house is crammed a tiny rabbit, sandwiched so tight against the wall of my home that one of its little legs is splayed out behind it. Its ears are the size of dimes. The creature stares at me. I watch for just a moment, knowing my presence and the recent terror of the mower have the little critter’s heart pounding a mile a minute. No reason to add to its stress.
I step back slowly, deliberately look away from the terrified baby. Righting the mower takes a moment. I figure starting it again immediately might give the baby a heart attack, so I go against protocol and head into the house, get a drink, wash away the sweat. I come back out twenty minutes later, my wife in tow, and the rabbit is right where I left it, squished up against the concrete foundation, staring at me, one little leg stuck out behind it like a little flag. We make adoring noises at the baby for a minute. The rabbit endures this treatment with all the stoicism of a Grecian hero. Then my wife heads back to work and I regard the mower, the rabbit and the endless yard.
The grass stares back at me. It’s grown an inch since I went inside.
“Listen,” I tell the rabbit. It doesn’t respond. One black eye regards me from its hiding place. I try to think of what to say. It takes a while.
“I’m going to start the mower again,” I say, finally. “It’s going to make a loud noise and it’s going to be terrible. I have to cut down the rest of this grass, but I’m going to leave the stuff by the side of the house, so you don’t feel the need to run. Does that work?”
The rabbit doesn’t respond at first. I give it a minute to consider my plan. The sun beats down, heavy like a shroud. I do my best to ignore it.
Slowly, ever so slowly, the rabbit brings its outstretched foot underneath itself. It shakes its head, once. Still it watches me. Go ahead, the tiny creature seems to say, I’m ready.
I start up the mower. It roars. The rabbit shivers but doesn’t move.
After the lawn’s finished I go back to the hiding spot. The rabbit is gone. No doubt it’s moved on to greener, taller pastures, or failing that the tall grass around the pool that never seems to get cut. Already I miss it. And the next time I mow, I walk around the house first, loudly announcing my presence, letting rabbits and chipmunks and other tiny, voiceless things that I am mowing, and that I’m sorry.
While I shout the neighbors stare at me. I must look crazy to them. But it doesn’t matter. The rabbit’s taught me something. It’s a small lesson, and a quiet one, but important for all that.
What’s grass ever done for me? Not much. I can’t stand the stuff. But that’s not the question anymore. Instead, rattling around inside my brain is, “What good is grass?” I consider this as I march around the perimeter of my property, clapping my hands and telling animals that don’t understand English about my lawnmowing plans. It’s a reasonable question.
In my mind, a tiny black eye stares back at me.
