The Reel Thing

Now it's often said that he who isn't read will someday wish he were. Perhaps not often as I just coined it, but perhaps it might be. If only my son and his friends had known their Twain, they wouldn't so easily have ended up mowing my lawn as I slowly sipped gin and tonics from the comfort of my rocker. And while it could be argued that pushing a reel mower is somewhat more entertaining than white-washing your aunt's picket fence, the effect is the same. After just a minute's enthusiastic demonstration, the three boys were fighting over whose turn was next and I was sauntering off to the shelter of the porch fan and its aforementioned libations.


Anyone over the age of thirty having spent at least some time in the country or simply digging through a grandparent's tool shed will instantly recognize one of these blasts from the less-obese past. I say less obese because if more folks were pushing one of these whirling dervishes each weekend, the markets for diet soda, tummy tucks and gym memberships would dry up overnight. While remarkably light and maneuverable, the thing does tend to become a challenge in the thick stuff, and mine's maiden voyage took it chopping through foot-tall bahia still swelling from an afternoon's downpour. Hardly a fair test, but a typical run as I tend to ignore the lawn until I can't see my shoes on the walk to the mailbox. Normally I would have just fired up my trusty 20 horse riding mower and been done with the whole affair in a matter of three songs on the headphones. But thanks to some poorly laid gardening plans of husband and wife, a fair stretch of front lawn lay unreachable by my able Craftsman, cut off by the meandering tendrils of a patch of watermelon vine. For the past couple months I've been reduced to giving the area an occasional haircut with a weedwacker, a tedious affair at best. Why not kill that bird along with saving the Earth by saving a few gulps of gasoline? Plus a free workout would be mine. I would be the neighbor that didn't give a damn what the Joneses were up to, I was cutting my lawn the old fashioned way. The way God intended. There were no holes in this plan. The fact that the boys were doing my work for me was but sweet icing on a well thought-out cake.

As I sat in my rocker admiring the unfolding of my ingenious social experiment, I couldn't help but judge the job the three were doing. With so many blades spared unscathed in their wake it was a wonder they ever managed a decent shave. I had to remind myself the trio were each five to ten years shy of learning such a morning ritual, and forced myself to withhold judgment. Sure enough, just a few drinks later the front yard and even the side were sporting a new trimming, albeit a bit sloppy in places. I took it upon myself to show the boys how it was done and proceeded to clean up their primitive yet appreciated efforts.

I soon saw why their prepubescent attempts had failed to yield the manicured expanses I was hoping for. When your lawn is say, sixteen inches high, the spinning steel of a reel mower just tends to tickle half the blades. The things are not designed for the slovenly, they expect at least a minimal level of effort on the owner's part. A number of passes was still not enough to bring some of the longer rebel strands to bear, and I was required to rev the thing up to full speed with some quick pushes before flipping it airborne and slamming it straight down on the heads of the ornery holdouts.

I tried pointing out to the boys my discovery that their slipshod job had been due to engineering rather than incompetence on their part, but by then they had disappeared up the lane to the thrills of the neighbor's trampoline. The novelty had surely worn off or had at least been called into question. My lawn had been mowed for free the one time it ever would be. They couldn't be conned into spending another afternoon doing my bidding. Of course, there's always cash.