After procrastinating for days and days, yesterday I finally cut the grass. Although I trailed my neighbors by a good week and a half, I maintain that my reluctance to mow was for an excellent reason.
The earth nurturing the lawn on the south side of the house is rich, and in spring the grass grows at a staggering rate. When I got to it this time it was a good five inches tall, possibly more. My mower coughed and protested from one end of the lawn to the other, indignant at what I was asking it to plow through. But it persevered, as did I, and in the end we finally achieved an acceptable horticultural buzz-cut.
The so called plus of this is I also temporarily reduced the risk of having my neighbors label me an uncouth foreign layabout. But this brief reprieve was achieved at no small cost. I miss, so dearly miss, the uncut grass’s movement when the wind blows. On gusty days the grass would ripple with a delicious rhythm, almost as if a bevy of invisible pixies were dancing across the grass tips. Each new ripple was born anew, racing off in a different direction and displaying a unique and vibrant intensity. I could watch these movements endlessly.
No more ripples now and no more dances. In their place I must settle for well-behaved stubble.
Well, for a while at least.
In a week or two the lawn will have returned to grass and my neighbors will have mowed and probably mowed yet again. Of course the unspoken neighborhood pressure will also mount, prodding me to follow their lead. And there’s no real doubt I’ll eventually relent and reluctantly rejoin the chugging ranks of village grass tamers.
But I can stretch it out a bit, can’t I?
Indeed! Procrastination is mine. The dancing pixies will soon return.