Briggs & Stratton Meet Old & In the Way

I have no way of proving this unless I hire a surveyor and my wife thinks that's a waste of money, but I'm pretty sure the yard surrounding our house is much larger, on a magnitude of five to ten times, than it was when we first moved here almost twenty-eight years ago. 

It certainly seems that way to me as the guy who attempts to mow it on a regular albeit erratic basis. Age and Cunning quite often best Youth and Idealism but not when it comes to cutting grass. 

I say erratic because there's a piece of the side lawn, and it varies from time to time, that I don't quite seem to find while the mower blades are turning and I'm pushing it around. It's only after I'm done, have turned the mower off and am heading back to (or have already headed into) the garage that I see this patch of uncut grass mocking me. 

I refuse to acknowledge it and spend the better part of the following week to ten days (depends on the rainfall we have) until I mow again at which time, the renegade patch of grass has moved to someplace else on the property, lying in wait for me.  

All the moisture our lawn ever gets is when it rains as I've decided that struggling to water and weed the lawn so that it flourishes and grows more luxuriant, thicker and faster is a fool's game I should not have to play at my age. As long as whatever's out there covers the ground and cuts down on the amount of mud I track into the house, I'm satisfied. More on point so is my wife.

Fescue, Kentucky grass, save your types for the golf course. My standards have gotten so low the grass needs to only be kind of green and I'm happy. I use the lawnmower we inherited from the people from whom we bought the house and I've left it out on the front lawn after I'm done in the hopes that as night falls someone will steal it giving me the perfect excuse to stop mowing, but so far, no joy. 

Looking at the calendar I'm starting to do the unthinkable: develop a fondness for winter. Why? You already know the answer: no more mowing (until after the snow melts). 
-bill kenny