nature

The Grass is Greener (When Someone Else Mows It)

As a homeowner for a number of years, I’ve done my share of mowing — push mowers, riding mowers, and as a kid, one with a turn radius so bad I had to convince myself it was a feature. With nearly two decades of Ohio lawns behind me, I still never managed the perfectly straight lines required to meet the standards of certain people I am married to.

Moving through Texas and Oklahoma over the last two decades, I’ve made my peace with the regional grasses — or at least stopped taking them personally. It doesn’t really matter if I have a beef with St. Augustine or Bermuda. Unless I want a yard full of wildflowers that the HOA would ban before they even bloomed, the grass has to get cut.

In Texas, I pushed a mower nearly every week and convinced myself I was good at it. St. Augustine has wide, flat blades that sprawl over the sidewalk and turn a “quick trim” into a full, sweat-soaked hour. Eventually, I had a moment of clarity: someone else could do this for money. I wasn’t great at trimming. I was worse at small-engine maintenance. And paying a crew for the season meant the yard got mowed while we were on vacation, without me making frantic calls and getting the “We don’t take temporary clients” rejection.

Oklahoma brought new grass and new logistics. Last year’s guy was ideal — $50 every two weeks, Venmo payment, maybe one conversation a month. Rain delay? We bumped the schedule. He went on vacation? Same. It was the perfect No Contact relationship: professional, low-maintenance, mutually beneficial. We understood each other completely and had almost no reason to speak.

He retired from the side hustle this spring — full-time fireman, finite Saturdays — and handed me three names on the way out. One was eliminated immediately for insisting on mowing every seven to ten days. Bermuda doesn’t grow that fast, and honestly, neither does my budget. The remaining two came down to one variable: the spring scalping charge. Bermuda grows low enough that a proper start to the season means shaving it down close to the dirt to clear out last year’s dead thatch. Both guys charged to scalp; one was discounted. That was the whole decision.

There was, however, one new wrinkle: my son. He recently bought a house on the street directly behind ours, and he has determined — much earlier in life than I did — that mowing is not for him. Whether this is genuine wisdom or a defense of his programming hands against mower vibration is still under debate. Either way, we were choosing together, which meant I had a co-signer on whatever call we made.

We will discuss the final decision tonight when he comes over for dinner. To scalp or not to scalp? Having gotten the scalp for the same $50 bi-weekly fee last year, I am hesitant pay extra. However, my bot friends say it is a good idea. Whatever happens, my son and I are going to get this decision done.

And if he decides to spend part of that Saturday installing a new ceiling fan for his dad, I’m certainly not going to argue with him.

The 23-Hour Sunday: A Lesson in Oklahoma Nice

I have lived in Oklahoma for almost a year and a half now, and most days I’m met with a frequent reminder of just how nice people are here. We aren’t just talking “Chick-fil-A” level service; this is something deeper. As a Midwesterner by way of Texas, my critical thinking usually searches for the catch—but in Oklahoma, the “My Pleasure” attitude seems built into the asphalt.

The DFW Gauntlet vs. The OKC Glide

Coming from the northeast side of Fort Worth, I’m used to a certain kind of vehicular combat. To get to DFW Airport, you had to survive a dozen traffic lights, a train crossing, a toll road, and that tangled knot where 820, 121, and 183 all fight for the same patch of dirt. You’d shrug at the chaos and mutter, “What else you got for me, Mr. Highway Engineer?” Up here, the experience is so different that it almost feels unfair.

From our house to the Will Rogers World Airport, we encounter fewer than five traffic lights. In fact, we don’t even see a signal until the terminal is practically in view. This lack of friction invites you to relax. It’s likely why I can’t think of a single roundabout in our part of Oklahoma City; the 4-way stop remains the preferred method for handling the world, one car at a time.

The Great East-West Bottleneck

However, that casual pace is put to the test just north of our house. We live near one of the last major north-south roads before the city peters out, and our local 4-way stop can easily see two dozen cars backed up at once. While the north-south flow is steady, the east-west traffic can become a genuine test of character.

You would think this would breed the “every man for himself” mentality I learned on the Texas tolls. Instead, it seems to build a peculiar kind of patience.

The Two-Fingered Salute

This morning, my wife and I were heading north to church. As we pulled up to that busy 4-way stop, I encountered a driver to my left heading east. While he had no backlog to contend with at this hour, he insisted we go first. He gave me that classic move: the two-fingered wave from the top of the steering wheel. It’s a motion that says, “Get on with it. I can out-wait you.”

I took him up on the offer. Why delay our arrival at church, even by a few seconds, when someone is determined to be more patient than you?

A Deficit of Time, A Surplus of Grace

What made this act of kindness truly remarkable was the timing. This was the first day of Daylight Saving Time—the annual 23-hour day that serves as the bane of most people’s existence.

On a day where every human being in the Central Time Zone is starting with a sixty-minute deficit, this man chose to use up a few more of his precious seconds just to put himself at a further disadvantage. “Out-nicing” another driver is one thing on a standard Sunday, but when you see it happen during the exhaustion of a 23-hour day, you know you’ve found something special.

You must be in Oklahoma.

A Month In The Life of Our Trash

When we lived back in Texas, life for our trash was short. If it had a life of longer than a week, it was only because it was a “recycle” that just missed the weekly pickup. All other trash including big and small items were picked up twice a week. Obviously, there were certain things that were not taken: chemicals, liquid paint, and propane tanks. Beyond that, our Texas trash crew were rarely discouraged from feeding anything into the mega-mawl of destruction. (a.k.a. The business end of the garbage truck) With 2 pickups every week (one a recycle), we did not know how spoiled we were.

Oklahoma handles there trash differently. (At least OKC does.) Immediately, we see the two big trash cans with wheels on the side of our house. The sidewalk the cans live seems to be a home made specifically for them. The gas meter dwells right next to them…in the middle of the sidewalk. For weekly trash days, the only trash collected is trash/recycles that fits within these rolling trash cans. Friday is always our trash day. Every other week is a recycle week. If one finds they are experts on creating trash, it appears a requests can be made to add an additional “weekly” trash can to your family.

On the 23rd of December (when this post was started), I was excited for a special day in our trash disposal experience. It is the first day we are supposed to be able to dispose of big items. This special day is the 4th Monday of every month. (Not sure of any Memorial Day or other exceptions.) When I put these items out the night of the 22nd, I calculated which side of our driveway would be the best place to place them. With a mailbox and a circular driveway, the trash has to go somewhere on either side. My calculation last night did not take into consideration the neighbor’s four cars. With the cars expanding beyond the driveway at some point during every day, I did not account for their parking on the street. As soon as I noticed this possible impact on my trash pickup, I moved everything to the other side of the driveway on the morning of the 23rd. Now, I wait…

I had to wait a few days. The rain the night of the 23rd was heavy. The pieces of the particle board desks took all of the rain in stride. The cardboard was a different matter. Its days of usefulness were behind it. I patched things up to assure easy pickup. Then, I waited again.

I knew Christmas day would be a bust. The only positive from the whole experience was when I took my morning walks. There were other who had trash still sitting out waiting to be picked up. I was not alone. My understanding of the pickup directions was identical to those who have lived here for more weeks/months than I.

Finally, the day after Christmas came. On today’s walk, I passed the other house on our street that had a substantial pile of non-standard trash. The home owner was standing outside barefoot while wearing his black nasal strip. (He must have forgot he was wearing it.) We sympathized with each other. He assured me he would call the city soon if his pile of cardboard boxes (Maybe he just moved in..?) were not picked up.

After finishing my walk an hour later, a magical sound greeted my ears. It was the sound of hydraulics compressing miscellaneous materials into a smaller space. (a.k.a. a garbage truck) They were coming up the street from “barefoot and snoring.” It was a beautiful sound. The garbage workers didn’t seem to enjoy my picture. But, the picture proves I don’t make these things up…at least mostly not.