Based on a recent Google search, it would appear that I am a bad person. I love the smell of freshly cut grass. Today I learned that the smell I love so much is the aroma of injury, of the just-mowed lawn trying to treat the pain I’ve inflicted upon it. Google goes on to tell me that what I am smelling is a distress call that plants, like grass, send out asking nearby creatures to rescue them from pending insect attacks. Hmmm, sounds kind of made up to me. I will hold onto my romanticized view and continue to associate the smell of freshly cut grass with my dad, being a kid, a simpler time, and the fostering of a culture of responsibility.

On the whole “plants can feel” tangent, I remember as a kid going camping with my sisters, my mom and some of her friends that she was in university with at the time. There was one guy there that was extremely wealthy, highly eccentric and believed he was ‘one with nature’. In terms of the hipster paradigm, he wasn’t even on the scale; he was a precursor. He was more of an early modern hipster, a first generation that would pave the way for the more refined, mainstream hipster culture that is prevalent, today.

While we were hiking my sister broke a small twig off of a tree. The guy was outraged by her actions. He grabbed her baby finger and asked, “how would you feel if I broke your finger off?” My sister couldn’t find any words to reply, she just stared at him, wide-eyed. He said, “remember that next time. Trees feel, too.” This was the same guy who, not even 20 minutes later, climbed to the top of some rocks, stripped naked and jumped into the lake. We never saw anything, maybe a quick bum shot, which by HBO standards, is nothing. It was a reckless act on his part. If it had happened today, I would have told him that he should consider conforming to the western norm of wearing clothing; in particular a pair of swim trunks that would facilitate the protection of his ball-sack (and the contents therein). The height of the cliff, the speed with which he hit the water, and the high pitched scream he let out when his head emerged to take a breath, confirmed for us that like the tree my sister maimed, his balls feel, too.

Back to the grass, as I mentioned previously, freshly cut grass reminds me of my dad. I used to watch him cut the lawn when I was a kid, waiting for the day when I would be old enough to follow in his grass stained footsteps. When I turned 12 my dad let me cut the lawn. He walked me through the plan, starting with ensuring the gas tank had sufficient fuel, and then the specifications for the cut. I cut the lawn until I went away to school and was pretty good at it. It was also pretty decent gig, $20 dollars for a 45 minute job. I had a future in lawn maintenance, if I wanted one.

Fast forward 22 years… our lawn has been looking a bit like Jurassic Park lately. My husband is recovering from an injury, so he hasn’t been in a position to cut the grass (he did cut the back lawn however, I have a fear of going into the ‘long grass’ as it tends to be infested with velociraptors, so say the experts). I haven’t cut the lawn once since moving into our house; not that I’m opposed to it, Heath has just taken care of it. So, he explained to me how to start the lawn mower (he started with the following phrase: “step one, open the garage door”… thanks tips)  and I did it, I cut the front lawn. Although I broke one of my dad’s rules in the process and I gave the lawn a bit of a buzz cut… the blade was a little low.

Yes, I still need to bust out the whipper snipper to do the ‘fringe’, but that is for another day. And now I wait for my $20 dollar cash payment for services rendered (although with inflation, I suspect I am low balling my fee).

Stay great!