The other day I got into an argument with Mrs. G. when the topic of yardwork came up. It was a Saturday morning and she asked what I had planned to do that day, the first in a few weeks that didn’t find us under some kind of severe weather advisory.
She was hoping — I know now — that I would say something like this: “Oh, we could chat over breakfast, go to the farmers market and Costco. How about a movie in the afternoon, one without superheroes and explosions?”
Instead, I said: “The grass needs cutting after all that rain and the bougainvillea is out of control. Also, I really need to get back to building the fence.”
And just like that, the kitchen was filled with silence. Clearly, Mrs. G. and I had different ideas on how to spend a day off.
Most men, I suspect, dream all week of a relaxing weekend, of the fun they can have. I have friends — old married guys, like me — who live for Saturday and Sunday mornings so they can go surfing. I go surfing with them, too, but I usually leave the water before they do so I can dig into chores.
Maybe it’s a primal thing or somehow related to a need for space. Maybe I’m a control nut. Back off, nature, this is my yard!
But consider the roots of my behavior.
When we moved into this house, the yard was a jungle. Every plant that grew here was three times its normal size. The sprinkler system, which went off at all hours of the day, kept everything growing. But that system was its own nightmare. There were wires stapled to the outside of the house and stretched across the lawn, which was mostly weeds.
To be honest, I think this is where my obsession with yardwork began. This was the first yard I owned. It was mine to do with whatever I wanted to do. It had a nice hibiscus hedge, rhapis palms, lauae and my favorite plant of all, a Singapore plumeria tree, which produces lovely yellow-centered blossoms and a never-ending supply of dead leaves.
Mrs. G. gave me free rein to buy gardening tools, starting with a lawn mower we named after our Realtor. I pruned. I replanted. I started a forest of ginger. And then I tackled the grass, replanting every inch of the yard.
This took nearly six years, and when I was finished I had to maintain it. Every week. I couldn’t live with the wild look some of my neighbors cultivated, so I worked on my yard until I fell exhausted on the couch.
Sometimes, I think that’s a twisted obsession, but I’ve been this way for so long that my behavior is on autopilot.
On that blustery Saturday, Mrs. G. recognized that.
“You have two speeds,” she said. “Go, go, go and stop. You need to slow down. All you do is fill your time with chores.”
It was a blunt but truthful observation. In my defense, I thought I had slowed down. In recent months, I had even discovered napping. Of course, a nap does not define a lazy day any more than yardwork. We had an empty nest and time to do anything. We went to a movie and shared our popcorn.
The next day, when Mrs. G. had to run an errand, I said I needed to stay home and take a nap. After she left, I mowed the lawn.
Reach Mike Gordon at 529-4803 or email mgordon@staradvertiser.com.
