Just a minute ago, which was really “just” last summer, but it seems so recent, we were living in the house and I was a woman who did yardwork. Okay, so I didn’t do much, but every few weeks, I faithfully pulled out my reel mower and snipped short all of those blades of helpless grass. I usually left the clippings for Cardo to rake up, because I’m actually pretty lazy and because pushing the mower around our small yard was enough work, I thought. (Great arm work, by the way.)
We lived down the street from a middle school, on a pretty long street, so we had frequent traffic cruising (often too quickly) down the street. Most of the people who passed while I was mowing the lawn would give me a strange look, something like “Why would she be using such and arcane implement to cut her grass. Hasn’t she ever heard of gas mowers? Hasn’t she ever heard of landscaping companies?”
I loved our reel mower. We got it for a steal at the Salvation Army for $12 (seriously, look up how much these things cost new). I loved the workout. I loved watching as I cut patches through the thick, shag-carpet of green. Also, I drive a Kia Rio that, while small, doesn’t get the greatest gas mileage. I figure using the reel mower was the least I can do (because I tend to obsess about these things) to cut down on my contribution to air pollution.
When we moved a couple of weeks ago, we gave the mower to a friend who father has a yard. Although we moved into an apartment, part of a complex that employs a landscaping company, and I won’t be doing any yardwork here, I was sad to watch the mower go.
As I was driving home today, in my gassy little Rio, I watched a man pushing his reel mower over his grass. It made me happy.
P.S. That picture is not of any yard I know. My yard was much, much smaller than that.