Originally published by The Clifton Courier, February 5, 2020

I’m beginning to really understand my father’s love of mowing the lawn.

I have always appreciated a nice, neat patch of grass, but never quite understood the drive that would see my father drag a heavy piece of machinery across the entirety of our yard in the unforgiving summer sun. He would come into the house dripping with sweat, gulping down water like a first year uni student with a sack of goon. It always seemed like a bit much especially when the benefit was just shorter grass. I mean, it was just grass mate, take it easy.

But recently, I’ve started to see things differently.

For years I haven’t had to go anywhere near a mower. My time in Sydney was lawn-less because land was far too valuable to not be exploiting it for rent in some way. My first lease once I moved back to Queensland was in a house with more of an “outdoor area” than a yard. And while I’ve been in a house with a backyard for months now, the lack of rain meant there wasn’t really any lawn to mow.

But all that changed after a few decent rainfalls. Somehow, the grass that lay dormant and brown for so long had remembered how to be green again.

With a bit of spare time on my hands and a backyard event to tidy up for, I decided to fire up the mower.

The first time I brought it out I was fiddling with the catch trying to get it to fit to the mower. My neighbour, who I imagine I’d shamed into mowing his lawn by mucking around with our mower in plain view of his house, offered to help me fit the piece in, but also couldn’t get it to work. He got the mower going for me, but I would like to point out that I have since started the mower with just one casual rip of the pull start cord (which, make no mistake, I absolutely am bragging about – I loudly declared it work the next day and may put on my resume).

The fist few minutes of my first mow after so long out of the game felt a bit weird, but then a voice inside me whispered, “remember your training!” and I soon found my stride.

My training began more than a decade ago. It consisted of Dad yelling over the roar of motor to line the wheels up so that one side of the mower is just over the strip of freshly cut grass I’d just gone over. You don’t just go all over the place willy nilly, otherwise you miss spots. You just follow the tracks you’d already made. Without knowing it, Dad had also taught me how to shave my legs, as the same principles apply.

Despite my being more than competent at mowing as a youngster, Dad continued to be the prime mower of the household. I don’t suspect this had anything to do with complying with child labour laws, but more to do with the overwhelming sense of satisfaction that comes with cutting your own grass.

Despite the physical fitness elements and the pride that pulses through your veins when the motor ticks over after that first rip of the pull start cord, I think the best part of mowing the lawn is having something to show for you spent your time.

This isn’t something I often experience. And this is probably for the best, because I don’t really think I want a physical representation of the way I spend my time. I don’t have the data to back it up, but I reckon the biggest slices in the pie graph that would represent the way I spend my time would have to be labelled with “fruitlessly switching between smartphone apps as I stare into the social media void to lull my brain into a numb stupor” and “stressing about deciding what to do with my free time”.

Even when I am actually productive, it’s all on a computer and what I’ve achieved is discernable only to me.

But when you mow the lawn, your productivity is out there for all to see.  And boy is that sweet. When the job is done, you fix yourself a big glass of cold water, wipe your lips with the back of your sweaty hand and gaze out at your handiwork. Something inside you glows.

For the next few hours and, let’s be honest, the following day, you catch yourself standing around just looking – nay, marvelling – at your crisply mown dominion. And sweet baby cheeses, it feels pretty good.