A Tribute to Well-Manicured Lawns & the OCD Men Who Mow Them
Those who think only women are OCD have never watched a meticulous male manicure his lawn. I grew up in a time before gasoline & electric powered lawn mowers. There may be a few around who still remember, but for those who don’t, class is in session. Riding lawn mowers were probably not even conceptualized in the late 50's and early 60's and would have been totally impractical for the hillside lawns in my small hometown in southeastern Kentucky.
Male versus female roles were very traditional “Ozzie and Harriet” style during that era. While we had cookie-cutter style coal camp town houses that lacked originality in design, no owner of a half-million-dollar home could’ve taken greater pride in his lawn than my dad. Our lawn was a reflection of the male of the family and the pride he had in his “castle” just as much as the interior of the home was a reflection of the female domain.
While our home furnishings were Spartan on the inside, by contrast we had the most lush, green lawn in the neighborhood and my dad manicured it to perfection at least once a week. Lawn mowing was typically reserved for Saturday evening when the sun was going down and dad carried out the task with an old reel type push mower, the kind that is powered by muscles and oomph rather than gasoline or electricity. Despite the sweltering humidity and heat, dad mowed in long pants and a shirt. You didn’t see men my dad’s age wearing shorts and sandals. (Neither did they work on anything vainer than a “farmer’s tan” from rolled up sleeves while working in their vegetable gardens.)
Gasoline or electric powered string trimmers to edge the lawn were also tools of the future. Dad had only a pair of hand held (manual) clippers, with which he dutifully squatted down and edged every inch of our property line every time he cut the grass. For this reason, dad knew the value of keeping mower and clipper blades well sharpened. Too often those sharp blades failed to discern which were weeds and grass versus which were my mother’s treasured perennials and he justified the cutting by insisting she had planted her flowers in the wrong places.
My brother and I were taught at an early age that littering was totally unacceptable and were rebuked for tossing down even a small chewing gum or candy wrapper, which we were responsible to promptly retrieve and dispose of properly. I remember dad taking me out to the back yard, extending his arm from left to right over a freshly mowed lawn, then pointing out how even the smallest piece of litter detracted from the appearance of his masterpiece.
From a child’s perspective, it was comforting to step barefoot on that lawn and roll downhill in the grass on a sunny summer day. Searching for 4-leaf clover and picking dandelion seedpods from the grass were child’s play, and nobody sprayed chemicals on their lawns.
High traffic areas around the front and rear porches (& our homemade swing set) refused to grow grass and were therefore swept with a broom to remove pebbles that would bruise a child’s bare feet.
I remember when dad finally upgraded to a gasoline-powered mower. With its heavy cast aluminum frame, it was a monster in size by comparison to the old reel mower and very hard to push on the slopes of our hillside home. Dad didn’t get a smaller, lightweight and more manageable mower (still not self-propelled) and rechargeable battery powered lawn clippers until the early 1970’s. By this time, dad was in his 60’s and retired.
I remember the exact day dad decided to retire that aged gasoline mower. By this time I was married, living only 2 houses above the home of my birth. One day I was sitting on my front porch as dad was taking on the task of mowing his lawn. First I watched him bring the monster mower out of the tool shed to a level spot in the lawn where he always cranked the mower engine. I knew the routine well. As I was watching him, he began to yank the pull cord to crank the aged engine. Yank. Yank. Yank. Yank. Yank. Sputter. Sputter. Sputter. Start. I watched as dad began to push the sputtering mower out onto the slight slope of the yard, speeding up the engine as smoke emitted from the exhaust. About 3 feet out onto the lawn, the mower died.
Without a word on his expressionless face, dad dragged the mower in reverse back to the level spot and began again. Yank. Yank. Yank. Yank. Yank. Sputter. Sputter. Start. Sputter. Die. Yank. Yank. Yank. Yank. Sputter. Sputter. Smoke. Sputter start, and away he goes, not giving that old mower another second to change its mind. About 2 feet out onto the slope of the yard, it died again. Dad repeated his efforts once more, but this time, the mower was making no effort to start. I remained silent, watching this whole scene played out from the vantage point of my front porch. I could feel my dad’s frustration on that hot summer day.
As I continued to watch, dad turned and walked back to the tool shed. I expected to see him emerge with wrenches and tools to beginning working on the ailing mower. Instead he came out of the tool shed flourishing a double-bitted axe. I was extremely puzzled at this point, wondering how he was going to repair the lawn mower using a double-bitted axe.
My answer came soon enough. Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! After about 4 whacks on top of that old Briggs and Stratton engine with his axe, my dad, still silent, finished his “repairs” and replaced the axe in the tool shed. Next he pushed the dead mower carcass to the curb for trash pick up. I continued to watch, still speechless. I was torn whether to acknowledge the scene I had witnessed followed by the obvious question: ‘Are you okay dad?’
Sometimes it just makes more sense to remain silent, which is exactly what I did. It was late evening after the heat and my daddy’s temper had cooled when I finally paid a visit to dad’s house to inquire (rather tongue-in-cheek) whether he had gotten his mower fixed.
I already knew the answer and he responded that indeed he had; he had just bought a new mower.
Have you ever noticed how your neighbor’s dog never does his business in his own yard? The same was true of our neighbor’s dog. Dad believed a certain Doberman named Max watched and waited for the opportunity to unload his business on his freshly mown grass rather than the unkempt lawn of his owners. Our neighbors, including the dog owners, all knew how particular dad was with his lawn. They didn’t even get upset that day, while they sat on their back porch watching, when my dad carried out a small shovel and began flinging doggie poo airborne over the fence into the lawn of the rightful owners.
As I drive by meticulously mown lawns, now striped with crisscrossing patterns by those just as OCD as my dad was; when I smell the essence of freshly mown grass, I remember my dad and I smile. Then I wonder whether there are children to appreciate that plush green carpet with bare feet. Is there a wife who appreciates the man who takes such tremendous pride in his home? I certainly hope so. However, the thing that makes me burst into laughter is when I spy an appreciative dog living next door.
THE GREAT DUNGENESS CRAB CAPER
I was thrilled when my annual nursing conference was to be held in Seattle, WA. I had wonderful memories from the last time I visited Pike Place Market where I dodged fish sailing over my head as orders were filled for waiting customers. This year I had my eyes on Dungeness crab. My daughter learned to love the bounty of the ocean when she spent a summer on the Oregon coast while in college. She in turn introduced the delight of Dungeness crab to me.
The morning of my departing flight, I made an early trip to the market with the notion that I would place an order to be shipped home as a special gift straight from the Washington coast. I had recently enjoyed fresh crab at a local restaurant near the wharf. Not bad for a girl who was raised on catfish! We might see an occasional crawdad in our backyard in KY, but really fresh seafood is a rarity.
After deciding on 4 large Dungeness crabs, I made my way with the special cardboard box back to my motel and caught the shuttle to the airport. The adventure begins!
I arrived at the airport in plenty of time. My shuttle left the motel around 10:30 a.m. and my flight was scheduled to depart at 1:15 p.m. I checked the large bag holding my clothes and nursing conference treasures in record time and headed to my boarding gate. This brought back a memory of an event many years ago, when I stopped for coffee and missed a flight to Toronto. To this day my family gives me grief over that one little error in judgment brought about by my love of good Java.
Other than the bag I checked, I had only a small carry on and that delicious cargo in a cardboard box. I rounded a corner and suddenly saw the line at security screening. It wasn’t a line, it was actually a web of despair that snaked back and forth single file, creating 7 rows of passengers all carrying what appeared to be tons of “stuff” and waiting to be screened.
The line didn’t seem to be moving. I entertained myself checking social media on my iPhone. After a bit, I checked the time on my cell phone and saw that about 45 minutes had passed. I was nowhere near the screening checkpoint. Finally, a TSA agent walked by and I politely asked “Ma’am, I have a flight that leaves at 1:15 p.m. What do you suggest I do?” At this point, the agent simply shrugged her shoulders and continued to walk past.
I was deeply touched by her support and show of concern for my dilemma. Actually, at that moment I was convinced she had a heart of pure stone and wondered how it managed to circulate the oxygen to her brain. The moments continued to tick by and I realized my flight was now boarding. My mood quickly escalated to frenzy and I could feel the trickles of perspiration on my forehead.
Finally I saw an opening in the crowd at one of the screening points. I placed my shoes, purse, etc. in the bin on the convey beltline. Next I placed the cardboard box and carry on bag on the conveyor. I told the screener I would alarm as I passed through due to the titanium joint replacements in my knees. The agent said I would have to submit to a pat search and asked why I hadn’t gone through a line with a body scanner. I had been waist deep in the crowd and all I wanted was to go through a checkpoint. I really didn’t care where or about available instrumentation.
I was told to step to the side for a full body pat down. I said “No problem.” The screener then began a long, detailed narrative about what she intended to check and how and she wondered whether I minded being screened in public. Once again, I told her that I didn’t mind and that I had been patted down before.
She continued explaining her method in explicit detail. I interrupted her abruptly. “Ma’am, just do the screening. You don’t have to explain every step because I’m familiar with pat searches. I work in a prison. Just go ahead and pat me down.” I begged. “I am going to miss my flight. “Her face was expressionless, totally unconcerned with my need to catch a plane.
Meanwhile another screener asked if I was carrying a laptop. I was not. I had long since grown tired of the battery of special tests done on certain portable electronics (including C-pap machines). I knew I was harmless, but they apparently did not. My bags were coming through the screener now. I could see my green carry on coming out the end of the conveyor belt beneath the clear plastic hood. Did I mention I was about to miss my plane? I reached for my bag. A large dark-skinned lady with blaring eyes snapped at me. DON’T TOUCH THAT! You’re not supposed to touch your bags until they are through the screener. “I’m sorry, Ma’am. I’m just in a hurry. Did I mention I’m about to miss my flight? They’re boarding my plane this very moment in a different terminal.” I got no response.
“They want me to open this box” she said as she began ripping off the strapping tape placed so carefully at the market. “Didn’t it just pass through the X-ray?” I asked. “The box contains 4 Dungeness crabs. I have the receipt from the market.” I offered.
She pretended not to hear as she continued to rip off the tape. However, she was unable to break the strapping tape with her hands and had no box cutter at the checkpoint (I think they banned these a few years ago….) So now she had to leave her station and go in search of a pair of scissors.
As she was walking away, I asked (ever so politely) “Are you going to re-tape the box when you’re finished?”
I swear I saw fire shoot from that woman’s eyes at that moment. I returned visual “fire.” After all, I was invested in a full-fledged crisis. How much worse could it get?
Briefly she returned with scissors and a roll of duct tape. She did a quick look inside and then began re-taping the box lid. When she was finished, she asked whether I wanted her to put tape on the handles. I said “No thank you, Ma’am. You've done enough. Please just give me the box so I can be on my way. I’m going to miss my flight!”
So off I raced onto the train transferring me 2 terminals away and up two flights of escalators. I was praying out loud over and over again “Lord, please don’t let me miss my flight.”
My flight departed (of course) from the gate farthest from the terminal entrance. I continued to weave in and out of passengers who clearly were not in a time crunch. I made it to the designated gate, only to learn they were boarding at a different (but thankfully nearby) gate. I arrived with a full 7 minutes to spare before they closed my flight.
I reached Atlanta 4 hours later to catch my flight home to Lexington. I was to depart at 10:15 p.m. and arrive home at 11:28 p.m. My flight was boarded and my personal belongings were stowed overhead. We were seated on the plane waiting to depart when the flight attendant announced that runway lights were out at Bluegrass Airport and our flight had been cancelled. We were to report to the gate attendant for re-ticketing and motel accommodations for the night.
I headed to the gate, joining a long line of other passengers. The gate attendant mentioned there was one remaining seat on a flight to Louisville. In hindsight, I wish I had never waved my hand, but I did. I was directed to hurry to that gate (2 terminals away). I picked up my belongings and off I went. By the time I made it to the departure gate, I had discovered that none of my family or friends were going to be able to pick me up in Louisville. I had to let go of the hope of getting home and join yet another re-ticketing line (which was much longer than the one I had just left). I was directed to a row of phones where I would receive information and be booked on an early flight in the morning. Once I had my new boarding pass, the gate agent would tell me which motel would accommodate me for the night.
After hanging up the phone, I bent over to gather my belongings…….wait! Where is my box of crabs? They were gone! I looked left and right. Where were they? Did somebody actually steal my crabs? I imagined every scenario and especially the one about them feasting on meal I was supposed to share with my family. I interrupted the busy gate attendant to report that my package was missing. I would return later for motel information after I found my package.
I remembered boarding the train with them (or so I thought), but that was the last time I remembered having them in my possession. I began to backtrack my steps, even returning to the train and riding back to the other terminal. But wait! Wasn’t I just talking to somebody on the train about how excited my daughter was going to be about this box of Dungeness crabs? No, I was certain I had them when I left the train at terminal B. I had just gone up two escalators with them, but where were they now? I headed back to terminal B where I asked several people who (by their uniforms) looked as though they might work there in the terminal about reporting my lost package.
At this moment I became aware that I was distraught about this package and that I needed to calm myself and let it go. I began to resign myself to the notion that I would probably never see that box of crabs again and instead refocus on the important priority of where I was going to sleep tonight.
In one final effort, I approached someone in airport security and was directed where I could go to file a claim for a lost parcel. Once I completed the claim, I headed back to the gate attendant who would book me in a motel for the night. By this time it was well past midnight. I caught the shuttle to my ½ star motel where I stood in a line with other displaced passengers that extended out of the lobby and into the parking lot.
It was after 1 a.m. when it was my turn to check in. The phone rang and the desk clerk repeated my name to the person on the other end. Nobody knows where I am and yet the person on the other end of the phone does? I haven’t even told my family which motel. Anybody who knows me would have called my cell phone. The desk clerk hands the phone to me. “Hello?” I timidly ask, wondering who on Earth this male voice is on the other end. “Miss, did you leave a package at the airport?”
“Yes, I did!” I excitedly replied.
“I have it here.” He replied. “Can you come get it?”
“I have no way there, but I will be back at the airport tomorrow morning. Could you keep it there for me until tomorrow and let me pick it up then?” I inquired.
“I’m bringing it to you. Wait right there in the lobby for me.” He replied.
So I hung up the phone with renewed faith in mankind because this wonderful person was going out of his way to help a total stranger.
Shortly thereafter, a black police car pulls up in front of the entrance. A uniformed office from the Atlanta Police Department steps into the lobby with my very frazzled-looking box of crabs under his arm. The tape has been ripped off and the outer paper torn. That didn’t matter at this point. The contents were much more important than the box.
“Thank you so much! I’m probably not supposed to do this.” I said as I wrapped my arms around him and gave this wonderful police officer a hug of gratitude. “You have been an angel and an answered prayer this evening. I will be forever grateful.”
He explained that the box looked a little rough because the tape had to be removed (the second time now on a single journey) and the dogs were sniffing it.
“Oh my goodness!” I exclaimed. “You called out the K-9s to sniff my package!” It hadn’t occurred to me until that moment that my lost package was handled as a security threat. I was getting an intense mental image I can attribute to watching too many crime shows on TV.
“I am so sorry for all the drama, but I want to thank you so much for what you’ve done and apologize for the extra work I caused.” I said. I went on to ask his name so I could remember his kindness.
“Moseley.” He said.
“Thank you, Officer Moseley.” I said. “You were an answered prayer tonight.” As he turned to leave, waving his hand as he exited, the word “Wow” popped in my mind. Once again, I began to play out the mental scenario of that discovery of my unattended package.
The next morning, I was back at the airport with my box of crabs safely in tow (this time like a mother who had allowed her child out of her range of sight for a moment and gone into a panic as a result).
It was a hassle-free check in and the severe thunderstorms that had created such chaos of cancelled and delayed flights the evening prior had finally passed.
As I approached my departure gate, I saw two airport security guards standing to the side. I stopped to ask about airport procedure when an unattended package is found, quickly explaining my lost box of crabs the previous evening.
Just then a lady in airport security uniform walked up, looked down at my package and then at me. “So, you’re the one that box belonged to.” She said. “My gate attendant got the report of an unattended package and notified me. We immediately called the APD (Atlanta Police Department) who came with the K-9 unit. It is airport procedure.” What are the chances in an airport the size of Atlanta, that our paths would cross? Welcome to my reality!
I quickly apologized, then thanked her, explaining that these 4 incredible Dungeness crabs were the souvenirs I was bringing home from Pike Place Market. I hadn’t meant to cause such chaos, but in my distraught state, I hadn’t realized I left them while rushing to catch a departing flight. My story had now come full circle. I asked that she relay to the gate attendant the details of the person and situation behind that package.
In my own chaos, I had managed to cause still more with my unattended package. And so the Great Dungeness Crab Caper ends on a positive note with photos that speak 1,000 words. I have gotten a good many belly laughs when recanting this story to my son and daughter. They say it epitomizes the lived experience of my life and what it is like having me for their mother. I say it portrays both drama and humor along the journey of my life. So, to Ryan at Pike Place Fish Market, if you read this: ‘Ms. Lexington’ wants you to know if I had shipped that package, I would have missed this story. I say the story made a better memory and the evidence of the happy ending is the very best part! (Did I happen to mention that my baggage went to Louisville instead of Lexington? Oh well, just icing on the cake!)
