Judge ... and be judged

TRAVERSE CITY, Mich. – I cut the grass today … only the second time this summer.

It's uphill from here.

It’s not that drought has dried things up, or we’d let the grass grow unusually long.

We’ve had buckets of rain – so much so that we ordered more gravel for our uphill drive to replace what washed away.

As for the length of our grass … well, along our road, one is not judged by the manicure of his yard.

Yes, there are occasional houses where the yards are like an 18^th hole … flat like glass, vibrant green.  Drop a quarter and you expect it to bounce.

But I think those houses belong to retired men needing something to do.

No, for the rest of us, we’re perfectly happy to let nature take hold.  And it does so beautifully.  Out back, dune grasses grow tall and wildflowers bloom; out front, our tall pines release spent needles that drift like snow, blanketing the ground in a brown thickness so soft that I frequently walk it barefoot. The only grass is near the fire pit.

The fire pit.

We do have an advantage here on Hilltop.  Because we are so high up, our neighbors can’t really see the state of our yard.  The exception is Levi and Leslie.  Their house, just up the drive, is even higher than ours.  But they’re a non-judgmental pair, plus I don’t think they can see through the pines anyway.

And so I cut the grass for the second time this summer.  Not really because I had to, but because old habits die hard.  For 27 years we lived in Johnson County, Kan., where the condition of your yard defines your character.

Pity the man there who lets a bare spot lag or his grass go to seed.  In some subdivisions, I hear, there are busy-body lawn police ready to write you up and even announce your name – “Shame!” – at the next association meeting.

Yarrow.

Not here; not along Five Mile Road.   And so today, as I pushed my Honda mower, I felt some guilt.  Down came the dune grass, the wildflowers – a fragrant mix so sweet that, when cut, memories flooded back of Granddad’s mid-Missouri farm. 

There was white-laced Yarrow, tufts of Angelica, the yellows of Black-Eyed Susans, and the purples of Rough Blazing Star.

Black-eyed Susans.

I’d be wrong to say the yard was thick with these colors.  The wildflowers were sporadic at best. Various kinds of grasses filled the gaps.

And that’s why I didn’t mow every flower.  I dodged around the tallest, thinking this a good compromise.

And when it was done, I expected to gaze across the now-uniform yard with the pride I felt in Kansas, a pride usually born of next-door comparisons.  “Mine’s greener, thicker, shaved to perfection,” I used to think. 

Not this time, though.  It looked okay; the job was done.  No big deal.

In fact, of more interest to me were three other things:

First, the owners of the horse farm in back had finished constructing its new stables.  Last I’d seen it, the building was a skeleton of fresh timber.  Now, it was clad in beige siding and a metal roof.  Based on the whinnying, the horses seem to like it.

The barn, now finished.

Second, the moles seem alive and well.  I’ve not met them yet; they prefer to hide in their shallow tunnels.  But I saw and felt their underground trails as the mower moved across the yard. “Live and let live,” I thought.  I’ll save my angst for something more formidable – say, a bear or cougar.

And third, I realized how much gasoline I’ll have remaining in my gas can by October.  The neighbors left a five-gallon can behind, and I filled it up thinking I’d need every ounce this summer.  But I’ve barely touched it.

Snow blower awaits.

Then again, I keep forgetting what’s ahead.  I’ve not yet tried to master our Craftsmen 8.5 horsepower, 27-inch snow blower that stands, with canopy, about seven foot tall.  But I know its fat Briggs and Stratton engine will suck down gas like big-dog Nellie does water.

Plus there’s the emergency generator we have standing by, for when – not if – the power goes out.

So I know the gas will be put to good use.  Perhaps daily.

And that’s important. 

I hear that, up here, during the snows, one is judged by the manicure of his driveway.