The Lawnmowing Conspiracy
by Kathleen Everett

"You know, all my friends laugh at the way you mow the lawn." The tot-turned-college student tossed out her baited line as I passed in the kitchen.

I bit. Excuse me?

"Tom says the lawn looks like it was mowed by a drunk blind squirrel."

Indeed. "Well, maybe he could come on over and show me how it's done?"

"He won't mow lawns anymore. He got burned out in high school. He says that your lines aren't straight and you miss big patches and it looks like you just walk, like, wherever and don't have a system."

Oh. Really. Well, Tom, if you are reading this from your dorm room, you should know that I have not only a system but a downright strategy and it works just fine for me, thank you, though I am not about to waste my time divulging it to a 20-year-old retiree.

It's true. My m.o.2mow is very simple: Go somewhere I haven't already been. The trickier part is determining exactly where that is. Now, through the eyes of a teenager holding an iced latte and watching from the distance of, say, far enough away from the noise to make an iPod audible, where I haven't been is quite apparent. But for those of us in the trenches whose view is from behind the handlebars, it can be less obvious.

Enter my secret weapon. Last spring, a coworker who entered into a new relationship with "TroyB" was bragging about how she systematically went through her yard, sprayed some kind of killer juice on the clover, raked those areas, planted sun/shade mix, fertilized, mowed on a schedule, and enjoyed the best grass of her adult life. In the process she lost 15 pounds.

I was intrigued. "Then how do you know where you've mowed?" I asked.

"What are you talking about?"

"If you kill off the clover, how do you find the edge of your rows?"

"Are you kidding?" Of course I wasn't kidding. Perhaps this is the time to explain to those who might not have intuited, that I am new to the art of lawn maintenance. Once a woman who ran with the wolves, I joined the ranks of the women who walk with the Deere. I accept the price that my choices have exacted. Where I could not accomplish my goals, I lowered my standards. When it comes to mowing, I wait for the "lawn" to send me the signal that it is time. Small white flowers pop up, not unlike the thermometer on the Butterball, indicating that the day of whackening is fast approaching. As far as I am concerned, if it is green and doesn't make a horrible noise when I run it over, it qualifies as lawn and can stay.

I suspect the American Lawn Mystique is part of a larger plot. A lengthy discourse on lawn maintenance occurred last spring at my workplace. The panel was made up of seven women and one 82-year-old gentleman who had accidentally swallowed his hearing aid battery. (The possibility that the research could be flawed has not eluded me.)

We concluded that the lawnmower is part of an overall conspiracy against women. We have labored to pull the cord that starts the engine to no avail. We have yanked and tugged on a coil much longer than a human female arm-span, only to "flood" the engine, be subjected to questions from well meaning observers about a choke (?) and then, when the monster finally starts and mows five feet, it shuts itself off again, sans explanation, and the whole process begins anew.

This sisyphean public spectacle is a demoralizing, primitive shaming, not unlike that of the fallen woman in the stocks. Clearly, we decided, the talents required for processes involving flooding, choking and small engine repair dangle off the Y chromosome. I am not suggesting that these are concepts inaccessible to women; just not any of the 600 or so I questioned on the topic. Having confirmed our hypothesis that lawnmower design is no more than a cheap shot aimed against women's suffrage, the panel of experts declared the purchase of a key-start mower not merely the best choice, but a moral imperative.

Buoyed for The Cause, off to the store I went for the acquisition. Seventeen models later I was headed home with the "best-option-all-things-considered." I plugged it in and set an alarm to charge the starter for the precise number of hours specified. In the morning, mustering my most positive intentions, I tentatively approached my charged, oiled, gasoline-filled new friend. I sent a silent plea heavenward in case there is a patron saint of outdoor equipment, and turned the key.

Oh My.

It started. And as if that wasn't enough, it remained on. Thrilling though it was, I knew I couldn't stand there all day sounding pretty. There was work to be done. I pulled on the bar that causes the mower to move forward. Had I read the Owners Manual thoroughly, or at all, actually, I'd have been more prepared for what happened next. That lawn mower took off like a rocket, with me grasping the bar for dear life and flying behind, the house and yard a Pollockian blur. Unaware that the tighter I grasped, the faster the mower would go, I reached terminal velocity at roughly 32 mph and had the front yard done in 17.2 seconds. What follows is an aerial shot caught on the Hubble Telescope:

Quite impressed with myself, I decided to take a break to celebrate. Returning an hour later to the most wonderful mower in the world, I confidently turned the key. Nothing. Not a sound. Not even an attempt. Silence. Stunned, I waited five minutes and tried again. Nothing. It's OK, don't panic. Probably some sort of automatic stopping device to keep American kids from mowing over their little sisters. Back to the manual. Hmmm. Nothing helpful. I dialed the 800 number, navigated the computerized help desk. Twenty minutes later, I hung up as they needed the serial number and model of the engine. Went out. Came back in. Started over. Re-pressed my way back through the phone labyrinth. The diagnosis: Equipment defective. Please return it to the store where you purchased it, Ma'am.

Now, I may not be the world's greatest landscaper, but I know a burning bush when I see it. There is no other possible interpretation of the events of that day. This spring my ad will be posted in the high school job placement office:

Wanted: lawn mower with lawnmower. Teenager or equivalent preferred. Apply in person, come prepared to audition. Knowledge of US history a plus.

Applicants need not worry about any harsh critiquing of the results. I will be much too busy to fret about lawn stuffs, spending my long summer afternoons on the porch. Far from the noisy mower, I'll be thinking lofty thoughts, drinking iced latte, and keeping an eye out for scoundrels trying to overturn the 19th Amendment.

Deere, John:

We're through.

Kathleen.