What is it about yard work that instills both dread and contentment? As a writer, I never look forward to mowing the lawn. And yet when it’s a beautiful day, it pains me to sit inside and write. For this reason I have developed a love/hate relationship with my outdoor duties.

Admittedly, working out in the yard is a wonderful diversion to writing. My routine usually starts with a vigorous bout of morning writing. If it goes well, I will write through lunch and then stop mid-afternoon. Usually by that time, my creative juices have run out and I need a break. Other times I get stuck much earlier and sit staring at the computer screen, paralyzed with indecision. In both of these instances, yard work seems like a great alternative to dawdling the day away. By afternoon all the dew has seeped off the blades of grass, making it much easier to push my lawn over through it.

Let’s mow!

This is when I enjoy mowing the lawn best. I pull the mower out of the garage, fill it with gas, and then screw the cap back on. The tang of unleaded gasoline informs me of what I’m about to do. This mower, unlike my last one, does not have a primer that needs pumping. I position it where I want to start mowing and then jerk the cord back. The first time it never starts. But sometimes I pull a muscle trying to rip-start it. I try two more times until finally the engine roars to life; music to my ears.

Now I can do something mindless and physical and let my mind roam freely. Maybe I can come up with some fresh ideas for my story in progress. How many times during any given day to we have moments when we’re not talking, watching TV or listening to the radio, reading a book, or engaging with something or someone? How often do we just let our minds wander? Let our brain play freely in the amusement park of life and not have to think?

Without overthinking things, I work on my strategy. The backyard gets a lot of shade. The front dries out faster. But it’s afternoon and the back should be dry so I decide to tackle the back first. It’s basically an odd shaped parallelogram with three large pine trees and two fenced sides, with an open back. I start at the corner and navigate the borders of the patio, picking up the odd corners and angles that abut the parallelogram. Now I can shut my mind off and just mow.

But sometimes the grass is so long that the engine sputters, and I have to angle the blade up so the motor doesn’t die out on me. I continue forward, mowing slowly while watching out for all the branches that had come down from the wind storm last night. Picking up pine comes and tossing them into the woods. Mowing even slower over some of the weedier areas.

Once done with the back part of the yard, I stop and examine my work. The smell of freshly cut grass lingers in my nostrils, and I revel in it. A good feeling comes over me when I see what I’ve done. It looks a bit like Augusta Country Club. Okay, well not that good, but at the moment it feels like I could pull out a seven iron and hole one in from here.

I make my way through the narrow corridor between my neighbor’s lean-to fence and my garage, making at least four passes until the lawn there is perfectly level. Then I head out and take care of the front lawn.

There are two levels. I start with the upper level first, specifically the right side of the house. It’s a square and I finish that side quickly. Ideas start to percolate in my head and the characters in my novel begin to speak to me in ways they never do.

I cross over the stone walkway and mow in front of the left part of the house. Fresh ideas now are staring to enter my mind. I move down the slight descent and start on the side lawn.

This is where my property abuts my neighbor’s side of the lawn. He hasn’t mowed in some time so the grass on his three feet strip is extremely long. I maintain my border and stay in my lane, which seems silly, but that’s the unwritten rule in the suburbian jungle; you only mow the lawn on your property. I’m afraid that if I mowed his narrow strip he’d get mad at me. Or maybe he’d expect me to do it ever single time, which I don’t want to do because I dread mowing my own lawn.

Before finishing up with the road verge, the narrow strip between the sidewalk and the street (I had to look this up because I never knew what this piece of real estate was called), I look back at the property divide between my lawn and my neighbors’ and see the disparity between the lengths. It looks horrible on his side, but what’s a good, thoughtful neighbor to do? Besides, that’s his responsibility. A few years ago I’d put in a fence to separate the backyard end of our property on account he’d let his side go to hell. Oh well, I do what I can.

I wish we were more friendly but we just aren’t. They are a quiet fam and keep to themselves, and I’ve held a bit of a grudge from a few years back, anyway. He asked me if I’d be willing to share the costs of cutting down a tree that sat athwart the property line. I happily agreed. And so I had the tree taken down, and even paid for it. Never once did I hear from him again. Not even a thank you or can I pay you for having it taken down. And word is that he’s a pastor.

Oh well. Forgive and forget, the good Lord tells me.

I finish the road verge. Release the safety handle and put the mower back into the garage. Grab the weed whacker and complete the final touches. Then I stand back and admire my work product. It reminds me that it’s similar to reading the final version of my novel. A job well done.

Time to go inside and have a cold beverage. With some new ideas in my head, I’m ready to write the next chapter of my new novel.