The Smell Of Fresh Cut Grass
I was only 6 years old the first time I pushed a lawn mower.
I was only 6 years old the first time I pushed a lawn mower.
My dad stood behind me, of course, and “helped”. Our old mower was heavy and awkward, and I’m sure I needed more “help” than I realized at the time. Some of my best childhood memories are triggered by the smell of fresh cut grass.
It’s late spring and the grass is growing like crazy. I’m 13 now — big and old enough to mow the lawn by myself. I’m earning money, and the neighbors call me by name. The grass is thick and wet at this time of year, and you have to catch that grass or you’ll never make it through a lawn like that. Sometimes I mow from morning until that dark blue dusk as the night is just setting in, and return home exhausted and sweaty, covered in clippings. But I’m proud of myself. It’s worth it. That money felt good.
School’s out and baseball begins. I’ve got a new pair of cleats and a ball glove my grandfather used to use. It’s oiled up and flexible — soft in my hands. I step out in to my back yard. And on that day it might as well be Wrigley Field. My buddies and I play catch and begin a spur-of-the-moment ball game. It’s my turn at bat. I hit a pitch high and outside, and I’m off and running. The throw to second — it’s going to be close — I slide on that grass and stain those jeans a green that will never leave. I lay back and smell something familiar. Mom calls us back to the house — she’s cooking something on the grill tonight.
Now, it’s a late summer’s evening after a long hot day. School’s been out for a few months now, and somehow everything seems to be saying that this will not last forever. There’s something almost heartbreaking in the air. Nights are cooler. The grass is slowing down.
The neighborhood kids gather at dusk in the driveway, kicking rocks, smiling and enjoying the late summer air. Everyone huddles briefly, then scatters like the wind, laughing and running wildly in every direction as my I am left to cover my face and count. The game is called “Kick The Can”. One kid is “it” and has to cover his eyes while the others hide. If he finds and touches them, they become “prisoners”. If they can kick the can — any object really — in the middle of that yard before he finds and touches them, all the captives run free.
I count and open my eyes. I raise my head and begin the search. I find and touch one, two, three prisoners before someone suddenly makes a mad dash for something lying in the grass. Before she can reach the “can”, I touch her and we both fall to the ground laughing. The grass is cool and soft. We giggle and smile as the waning light fades, and I look into her eyes.
“We giggle and smile as the waning light fades, and I look into her eyes.”
I swear even now I can feel that soft grass on my skin. I can smell it.
When I get home that night, the light by the garage is on, and I see my dad drinking a “can of suds” as he liked to call it. I could tell he’d been working in the lawn again. He asks where I’ve been, and we talk about the night’s adventures before rolling that beautiful, clunky old mower — still slightly warm — into the shed, and call it a night.
I’ll never forget those days. I’ve moved away now. Dad’s pushing 80. Almost everything has changed. But I’ll be damned — that grass still grows every spring. I cut it, and then it comes back, greener than ever. I cut it again. And, still, it grows back.
I have a family of my own now, and kids in the yard. They’re making memories of their own. Our mower’s not as heavy or clunky – it’s not leaky or difficult to start like my dad’s old mower, thank goodness. But that sound. Those smells. That feeling of accomplishment at maintaining my home. They’re all still there.
This time around, however, the mower is lightweight, ergo dynamic and affordable. It’s a state of the art Acme that actually makes the neighbors jealous.
And every time I finish a day’s work in the yard, I kick back, enjoy a “can of suds” — this time a fresh IPA — and I think of my dad as the sun goes down. I remember those long summer days, those deep, green grass stains and endless games of “Kick the Can”. And the smell of fresh cut grass.
