Summer of the Lawn War

I lost count of the number of times I mowed our lawn on Caroline Street.

Dave and I raised our children in the house where I grew up. Those were busy days. Dave worked overtime and rebuilt engines for his muscle cars. I worked full-time, bought groceries, made meals, did laundry, and oversaw children’s schedules, so requested the task of mowing the lawn in the summer.

To be able to get outside in the fresh air, the perfume of freshly-cut grass following me as I pushed our stubborn mower was a treat.

Stubborn? Only in starting. Once it was running, to let go of the handle meant an hour before it would fire up again, so any interruptions—“Mom, there’s somebody on the phone”…”Mom, can I have…?”…”Mom, can I go…?”—had to wait until I was done.

Bliss.

One summer, new neighbors moved into the Turner’s house next door. Franklin was a true Southern gentleman, young and industrious and friendly. Neighborly. His wife was a shy, soft-spoken, pretty girl who planted flowers, and took care of house and child.

Franklin introduced himself and his family, and offered any assistance he could at any time. A man with manners. A man raised well who knew what was right.

A man who knew what was proper.

It didn’t take long to learn that a woman mowing the grass was not proper. It was a man’s job.

Made no difference when I explained why I enjoyed it, why I chose to do the task, why I wanted to mow the grass.

It wasn’t proper.

First, he sounded out Dave on the topic. Dave shrugged and repeated that I insisted on taking over the job. He didn’t mention that I was well known for my, well, we won’t say stubborn ways. We’ll just say I knew my mind.

Drove Franklin crazy. He tried to discuss it again with me, without success, so he moved to Plan Three.

I drove home from work one summer afternoon to see Franklin pushing his mower out of our yard, the lawn neatly cut. Now, I won’t say I didn’t appreciate it, because it was a kind act, but I knew how much time (an hour) and gasoline it took to cut the grass, and I was raised well, too.

I thanked him and reminded him that I did enjoy the activity, so not to worry about it. Ha!

And so, began the mowing war. I had to mow sooner and sooner before Franklin got the job done. Our twice a week chore turned into a race to see who could get to my yard first. He was pleasant about it, but he was determined. Well, so was I.

As the summer went on, our neighbor on the other side watched the shenanigans with amusement. Neither she nor Tim cherished mowing their lush grass. “How do you get him to do it?” she said. “Get him? I can’t stop him,” I said, and Laurel offered their lawn instead.

Nope. Franklin had seen Tim mow a time or two, so he was obviously capable. Franklin was too polite to discuss Dave not doing it, in spite of our attempted explanations.

There was only one solution. Dave had to mow the grass at least twice, and be seen doing so.

It worked. Once there was a man in the house capable of mowing the grass, Franklin relaxed and returned to his yard.

He didn’t live there long enough to laugh over that summer in later years. I’m certain that no matter where he moved, his generosity and ethics benefited other neighbors.

He was a man who knew what was right.

May we all be as principled in our lives.

Oh, and it’s time to mow the lawn.