LatinosUSA

I’ve been suffering from writer’s block for quite a while, so I’ve decided to start typing anything that comes to mind. Forgive me if I bore you. I just need to write something, and the level of creativity is not the most important element. How to start? Well, the previous words were a start, but what next?

I just came in after raking the lawn and sweeping the drive. Blasted galahs attacked our trees yesterday and left a mess everywhere. It was whilst considering the purchase of a BB gun that I forced myself to come and write. (What is BB short for? Both barrels? Probably not).

When I was young, I was given the disproportionate chores of mowing two lawns, clipping hedges, weeding flower beds, and picking gooseberries. Disproportionate because my two brothers had merely to keep the coal scuttle full, wash and dry the dishes, peel veggies, run to the corner shop, bring in the laundry when it rained, and again when it was dry. There was some stress for them watching the weather (we lived in the north of England). They had to allow the clothes to dry but take them in before the first drops of rain fell. They also had to collect mail and wash the car. I know their list was longer, but there were two of them, and their jobs were petty. The lawnmower had no engine. It was a push-and-pull model and difficult to maneuver. If the machine tore up clumps of grass, it was deemed my fault, and I was corporally punished. Had my father had the sense to appoint me chief gardener, I might have cultivated a source of pride. Calling it a chore created the wrong mindset, the mindset I’ve had ever since.  As I got older, the job became easier, but my brothers cursed me when I joined the Royal Marines, and they had to perform my duties.

Hey, I’m writing.

Royal Marines don’t do gardening. God created sailors and soldiers to do that, thereby strengthening my mindset. However, when I returned to civilian life in Notting Hill (London), I lived in a small flat with a minuscule rear garden that the dog used to shit in if I was late taking him for his constitutional. That was the nadir of my gardening stints.

When I first moved to New York City, I lived in an apartment on the third floor, and thus had no garden.

In Chicago, my quarters were part of an estate where workers mowed, trimmed, and weeded.

Back in Manhattan, I had a gardenless living space again.

In Bloomfield, New Jersey, I rented rooms in a shared house and, again, had no need to tend to the greenery.

When I moved to Bayshore, NY, there were two lawns (one on a slope), several hedges, and a couple of mulberry trees that needed tending. I tried to make mulberry wine, but when the vat in which it aged exploded in the linen closet, she who had to be obeyed stipulated we stick with cabernet sauvignon from the local bottle shop.

From Bayshore to Sayville was only a short journey, and I again had two lawns and some hedges. I tried my luck and grew some tomatoes, which went into salads. Winters brought snowfalls, some heavy, and so, instead of enjoying a rest from mowing et al, I spent comparatively more time shoveling the drive, cleaning snow off the cars, and, when we had a couple of ice storms, using a few extension cords and a hair dryer to defrost said cars’ doors. All jobs understood to be in the gardener’s domain.

Back in London, my abode had no lawns, but there was a narrow strip of garden at the front of the house where many flowers flourished. Unfortunately, there were people who thought it permissible to pluck some blooms. When I physically admonished one of them, the police came to say I had erred. Apparently, it’s a greater crime to smack someone than it is to pick a flower from a private garden. When I thought of my countless hours spent in many gardens, I didn’t agree. Still, we shook hands, and everyone went on their way.

I next lived on a Welsh Pony stud in Wales, where there were large swathes of grass that the ponies thankfully kept short.

In Adelaide, my apartment on Hutt Street was gardenless, so I took to assessing South Australian wines.

The move to Melbourne brought a return of lawns and hedges, which is where this essay began, if you throw in a flock of galahs. I considered installing artificial grass, but was dissuaded.

I suppose you might think, after this tedious list of gardening chores, I have gained a green thumb. I haven’t. I’m an urbanite and I love stone, brick, and concrete, but I now appreciate why people plant signs saying, Keep Off The Grass.

Almost nine hundred words so far, so I’ve got some writing done. Do I give it a title?

Got it.

One Man Went to Mow

There was always only one man, me. Everyone knows the song, and dogs were on site in London (Bonzo), Bayshore (Sergeant), and Sayville (KT). Now the song is stuck in my head. One man went to mow, went to mow a meadow. One man and his dog went to mow a meadow. Some of those lawns seemed like meadows.