Groundskeeper No Longer

Relenting Grass Control

All the men who raised me were, among much else, good lawn men. They took mowing seriously and did their bits of lawn with pride. It was an art that was handed down to me. I have always liked to mow, even when I haven't been very consistent or bothered by the need to do it. I guess I assumed that, like all of them, I would give over my mowing and yard duties when old age settled on me. Then, last year—far sooner than I anticipated—I finally decided to stop tending our lawn myself. 

It was not an easy decision. When Micki first suggested it, I rebelled at it with more than my usual intensity. In fact, one might say I bucked. She pointed out that I have legitimate health concerns. Serious enough to warrant real caution, especially because of how much hotter it seems to get each summer. Eventually, I relented, feeling like a failure. It was a compromise, because what I agreed to do was hire someone to take care of the grounds only during the hot parts of the year. From late September to April, I would retain full control of our grounds.

The Ticker and the Heat

What kind of health issue do I have that makes cutting the grass dangerous? I have a genetic condition called a bicuspid aortic valve. Where most people have three little flaps on all their valves, on the aortic valve, I have just two. I'm fine. I get checked regularly, and I take good care of myself. I run five kilometers (3.10 miles) three times a week, eat healthy (ish), and stay hydrated. If aware of it and cautious, a bicuspid valve is a mild concern. The key is that one has to take care of it and oneself. Eventually, they will insert a pig or cadaver valve and unfurl it over the old one, and I’ll be good as new, assuming I don’t get endocarditis sometime between now and later. In the meantime, though, one of the biggest areas for caution is becoming overheated. When hot, the heart works harder, which puts greater strain on it. Since I’ve got a wonky valve, this can cause arrhythmia, a rupture of the aorta by the heart, or heart failure. The threat is higher the older one gets, but why take chances?

Obviously, excessive heat is dangerous for everyone. It can cause heat stroke, which can cause damage to the thermoregulation system that we all have. The damage can be long-lasting or permanent. People who have had the early symptoms are far more sensitive to heat and more susceptible to heat stroke after that. Several times over the years, after stupidly mowing the grass on excessively hot and humid days, I came away from my chores feeling completely wretched. I was dry, not sweaty, my heart hammering in my chest, feeling faint, wobbly, and with ringing in my ears. I eventually cooled down and never lost consciousness, but when I told my doctor, she effectively put the kibosh on heat exposure for me. She said that I had obviously suffered heatstroke and that I would probably be far more susceptible from then on.

When I asked my cardiologist (seeking confirmation, not a second opinion) about yardwork in the summertime, I got the same answer: hire someone. It's safer. That was in 2024. I stubbornly battled through the rest of that summer, and as usual, tried to keep mowing to the cooler parts of the day, or on the rare cooler days. But, because colder days in the deeps of summer are rare, I was also going longer between mowing, breaking up my front and side yard into two separate days when I mowed, and finding that after I was through, I had no energy left at all to do the other necessary things for a day or two. As usual, I rejoiced at the plummeting temps that fall, which made lawn care that much more tolerable. 

It was that fall (of ‘24) that my backpack leaf blower died, and I started using my mower to vac up the leaves. It gave me a sense of stamina to “mow the leaves” in the cooler temps, and gave me the time outside that I love. As late summer burned through to winter, I started to think that maybe I had just been a wuss that summer, that I was really fine. Then, as it always does, winter gives way to summer. As the temps rose, I started feeling awful again by the time I completed my groundskeeping chores.

Surrendering to Win

Last summer was really bad. It was the hottest year on record thus far, and tropically sticky as well. The heat and humidity was such that air quality levels were often plain appalling, which aggravated my asthma, even with controlling meds. The grass in our yard got downright jungly. I swear I saw a jaguar lurking under our ancient magnolia. I kept pushing off going out to do the grass until it was nearly impossible to see the road from our front door. I’m sure my neighbors were preparing to call the City on me. I knew it was bad. I had some trouble swallowing my pride.

Finally, Micki prevailed upon me with her steady, logical, and loving persistence. I acknowledged that I couldn’t take the heat, but that the grass still needed to be mowed. The compromise was to find someone I could trust to do the work during the hottest parts of the year. Sometimes you have to surrender to win, no matter how antithetical it may seem. Luckily, I knew just the right man for the job. So, I went up the street and talked to my neighbor.

The Yard Man Cometh

For years, as I have written before, I walked to work in all seasons and in all weather. I got to know the section of Worth Street between our house and the library exceedingly well, and many of the houses, and people, too. About halfway up lives a lovely couple who regularly sit on their porch in the morning. I used to chat with them often. They are seriously nice folks. Mark has a small yard care business and takes care of several people we know around the neighborhood. Last autumn, I broached the subject with him, and he agreed to take up the idea again, come spring.

Even just talking to him about it, I admit, helped me feel somewhat better. I was suddenly off the hook. The yard would continue to be taken care of now by someone who had the skill and tools to do it right during the summertime. Underneath that wash of relief, however, flowed a deeply carved river of guilt and shame.

The Boy Who Mowed

When I was twelve, I was deemed old enough to be charged with mowing the grass at the Schaefferstown house. There were nearly three acres of rolling lawn, and it was my chore to get it and keep it mowed. Summertime in PA, though hot, is never (or rarely) as humid as here at home. I didn’t mind the heat back then, anyway. I drove our Kubota riding mower all over the property, listening to my Walkman and singing along. I enjoyed the process. No one bothered me: just a boy, his mower, and some good tunes.

I was a bit older when I moved in with Pop Bare, but I mowed his grass, too, for a while. It was a push mower rather than a riding one, but it was no less enjoyable. I also did work for my grandmothers, occasionally, for friends and neighbors, and eventually, got a job mowing at an old folks home near my childhood church.

Today, we have a big front lawn; bigger than the whole yard at the previous house. The side yard, which we immediately took to calling The North Yard (or, Nawth Yahhd, no offense to real New Englandahs), is itself just shy of an acre, and there was more grass to mow in our back and side yards, too.

I took it seriously. I worked hard cutting the grass and getting the yard how I wanted it. The example of those men I mentioned before was that the grass always needs to be mowed, and a neat yard is an important symbol of my responsibility to my family and to the other people in our community. 

I got to know our yard intimately, the way I know the contours of my own mind. I planted flowers and trees, trimmed and pruned, mowed the grass, did the edging, pulled up invasive volunteers, made wood piles for our fire table, planted cactus, and raked out the flower beds dozens of times. I took real pride in crossing the grass on the way to work. I listened to huge numbers of audiobooks while mowing. I loved being outside. It was glorious, if sweaty and dusty work. For my forty-fifth birthday, Micki and the kids even bought me a brand new mower, one of my prized possessions.

I express my ownership and accountability to my family through the tangible works of maintenance on our property. It is hard, dirty, hot work to get the place looking decent, and as I've written before, it's a losing battle because the green and growing things never stop their slow, plodding war of attrition. To stand against that verdant tide is part of what has given me a sense of purpose as a homeowner.

No Mow

It’s hard to hand all that over to someone. How to convey sixteen years of careful, dedicated lawncare to someone in just a few minutes? How can they possibly know that, as I made each pass, refilled the tank, sharpened the blades, changed trimmer line, hand cut and pruned, every part of our property is as much a part of me as the hair on my head? I’ve walked over every single centimeter of the ground countless times. I’ve dripped my precious perspiration into that soil. I’ve watched the landscape shift and change. I’ve seen trees grow and fall, and others sprout and rise from skinny saplings. It’s not perfect. Not even close to it, but it is mine, and I have to give over the control, now, far too young and far too soon.

It makes me sad. Despite the relief and the intense realization that I have legitimate reasons to hand things over, I still feel like I’m a failure. It’s a silly and very outmoded way of thinking, but groundskeeping is what the men in my family have done since before gas mowers were invented. Unlike those hale and hearty fellows, in their grass-stained dungarees and grimy shirts, sweating in the late-afternoon rays of the sun each weekend, I’m handing the reins of the job to someone else.

A+ Mark

Mark, my neighbor with the lawn business, is a tough guy. He's brown as a nut and tough as old roots, and the heat doesn't bug him at all. When I tried to explain to him how bad I felt handing over the responsibility, he said, “It’s all good, man.” After a brief walk through of the yard, to explain where roots were and holes and other idiosyncrasies of our property, I passed the gas can to him. To my enduring gratitude, his first pass was neat, fast, and careful. The yard, when he is finished, looks far better than when the corporate guys finish my other neighbor's yard. They rush to get done, trying to make up time, heedless of what plants they kill or noise they create, or the mess of grass and dust they make.

Mark actually cares, and he understands that I do too. Just because I have given over the harder, hotter work, I will still oversee the grounds and do a lot of the more intricate stuff in the background, either early, before it gets too hot, or late, when the sun is down. More than anything, he's so reasonable that I almost feel as though I'm getting the deal of a lifetime. If he ever retires, I'll have been so spoiled that whoever we get to take over will have big, grass-stained shoes to fill.

An Administration Position

In the meantime, we have big plans for the backyard, and for more raised beds and a new location for a permanent fire pit and other exciting things we want to accomplish over the next year. I can do small projects, here and there, and stay out of the hot sun and work slowly. I will oversee the summer work and take care of the leaves in the fall and winter, when I’m not in any thermal danger. Anyway, I still have creative control over the entire property.

Come to think of it, maybe I've not retired as groundskeeper, but rather promoted myself to an administrative position. I like the sound of that, almost as much as I like the sound of someone else mowing our yard on really hot days.