When I was a kid, I watched my dad mow the lawn and yearned for the day when I'd be old enough to do the same. When I was a slightly older kid, I realized it was the kind of activity that could earn an enterprising youngster a few bucks to buy candy and baseball cards. And a couple years later, when I was officially tasked with tackling my parents' corner lot, I found that dealing with flying grass, powerful machinery, random and hidden dog-poop bombs and midsummer heat wasn't anything I would call fun. Reality can bite like that.
Most of my adulthood was spent living in apartments or in completely xeriscaped environments, and it was pretty great never thinking about cutting grass. But when I moved to Spokane six years ago, I found myself living in a house with an actual yard. Grass, trees, flower beds, the works. My partner is a gardener, so she handles the tricky stuff. I, surprising myself, happily reengaged with the mowing life. It's a bit of a nostalgia trip, for sure. I crank up some '80s metal and become 15 again, mowing in different patterns to the sounds of Faster Pussycat, Dio or RATT — stuff I'd never turn on in decent company.