The Grass Is Always Greener After the Lawn Guy Leaves

Published in The Chicago Tribune
August 4, 2004

By Gwen Moran

Not long ago, my lawn looked like it belonged to a vacant house: Nearly a foot high, punctuated with bright yellow dandelions, crab grass and wild scallions. For weeks, I'd been bugging my husband to find time to mow it, but he had a million excuses -- "I've got to work this weekend," "The mower needs to go in for service," or "Will you please go back to sleep? It's only 4 a.m." I even went so far as to pull out the mower myself, but threw my back out pulling the cord to start it.

For the sake of my marriage, my husband's sleep patterns, and my aching spine, it was time to call in the reinforcements. One bright, sunny Friday, I opened the phone book and dialed the first ten lawn guys listed, none of whom answered their phones. When I got the voicemail of the last one, I hung up in frustration. Two seconds later, my phone rang. I answered and a deep, James Earl Jones-esque voice explained that he had seen my number on his Caller ID and asked if he could help me. I blurted out my predicament. My hero calmly replied, "I'll be right over."

I heard him approach before I saw him. A piece of his pick-up truck's undercarriage dragged on the ground, announcing his arrival by setting off dramatic sprays of sparks. As he stepped out of his dented '92 Dodge and hiked up his jeans using the loops where his belt should have been, I knew that this was a man who could get things done.

Standing in my front yard, I fell hard. With each description of what he would do - mow the grass, blow out the dead leaves, weed the flowerbed, clear the debris from under our hedges - I nearly swooned. When he promised to come back every week and maintain the property, money became no object, and I signed the mud-encrusted contract with the dull pencil that he handed me. If his wife hadn't come along with him, I would have kissed him on the lips. Looking into my eyes, he told me he'd be back on Monday, unless, of course, it was raining.

My husband merely grunted, "That's good" when I tentatively explained that we'd have another man around the house once a week. (Didn't he hear my voice quaver?) Waiting patiently all weekend, I tried not to focus on the fast-growing flora that threatened to wrap around our home at any moment, trapping us inside.

When I awoke to a dark and stormy Monday morning, I was devastated that I wouldn't see my tall, grubby knight that day. At that point, the grass and weeds were another inch-and-a-half higher, and small children were at risk of getting lost in the thickness of them. Grabbing my daughter's tiny hand in one of my own and wielding a machete with the other, I carved a path to our SUV. When I returned from dropping her off at school, feeling as grey as the day outside, I hardly noticed the hum in the distance. Was I dreaming? No - sweet rapture -- there was my lawn guy, trimming the edges of my walkway.

"What are you doing here?" I asked breathlessly as I hurried up the path.

"I couldn't stand the thought of leaving you like this for another day," he replied. Actually, what he really said was, "I'm just going to give it a cut today. I'll have to do the big stuff later this week when it's dry," but I knew what he meant. Then, with a dirty hand, he scratched the four-day stubble on his chin, spit into the street, fired up his trimmer, and went back to work.

Secretly, I started listening for the "scrape, clank, clank" of his truck approaching. By 10 a.m., he'd have stripped off his shirt, tied it around his head, started up the mower, and sent that musky scent of newly-cut grass with pungent overtones of onion through my window. I wondered how he could balance a cigarette out of the corner of his mouth and chew gum while creating such pristine stripes with the mower blades in the grass. After his truck headed west, I would walk around the yard, marveling at his acumen with a Weed Whacker.

Of course, it was only a matter of time before the neighbors started asking questions. I found myself ducking behind the Cheez Whiz display at the supermarket to dodge the nosy lady from down the street. She'd asked me twice before for my lawn guy's number - but I was loathe to share it. What if he got too busy? What if he started spending more time spraying someone else's dandelions? There was too much at stake.

Alas, relationships that begin with sparks flying from a muffler hitting the asphalt can seldom be sustained. After his last visit, I found a small patch of grass that he missed with the mower. You couldn't see it unless you were looking for it, but I knew it was there. Does he think I'm just another lawn on his route? Doesn't a girl deserve to feel like her crabgrass problem is a priority? I fear that the thrill is gone.

Lately, too, I've been noticing that the pool could really use a professional touch. Come to think of it, I've always loved the smell of chlorine in the morning.

Now where did I put those Yellow Pages?