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For most of my adult life, I have lived across the street from a couple who declared themselves winners of the Yard of the Month contest in my neighborhood - every month of every year for at least three decades.
In the beginning, there really was a contest. It lasted about six months and then ended because the judges were too busy building careers and raising children to get together once a month to canvas the neighborhood and decide on a winner. The night they rode up and down the streets shining a spotlight on our lawns in an attempt to do so proved to be their last official meeting. It seems my Mr. Greenjeans neighbor called the police to report suspicious activity on our street. The judges decided being pulled over and questioned by the police was not in their job description and immediately resigned.
Even though the contest ended, my neighbor's attempt to win it did not. When their kids were young, we thought it was great that they had produced such a lush front lawn. It would be a super place for their two young sons to play ball or for their two young daughters to play with their dolls. Alas, it was not to be. While other neighborhood kids rode bikes, played ball or engaged in other childhood activities in each other's yards, the poor Greenjeans kids were forbidden to walk on the grass in their front yard. They spent their entire childhoods relegated to the back yard.
Actually, I did see the oldest boy walk on the grass to retrieve a ball that had landed there from a nearby stick ball game. I kid you not, his mother made him remove his shoes before he could walk on the grass to pick up the ball and - despite the pleas of the ball's owner - deposit it in the trashcan.
The summertime was interesting, what with Mrs. Greenjeans standing guard at her window, or on the front porch, protecting her grass from stray dogs and little kids who might step off the curb and squash a few blades. The falling leaves, though, sent the entire family into survival mode. When they were young, each child was provided with a little bucket and made several trips a day searching for any stray leaf that may have fallen since the last patrol. Once the kids were grown, Mr. Greenjeans bought a riding mower complete with assorted vacuums, blowers and other attachments that he used to maintain a leafless lawn the entire season. Late into the night, we could hear the mower, or the blower, going as he worked for that phantom Yard of the Month award.
Because this family took it personally if I didn't catch the leaves from my trees before they touched the ground, or dared to let my grass grow longer than Mr. Greenjean's crewcut, I decided to use the yard work as part of my exercise routine. A riding mower was out. No exercise there. Even a gas powered mower wouldn't provide that much exercise, so I bought an old fashioned reel type push mower - the kind we used as kids.
As my neighbor would ride around on his mower - complete with canopy - I would see him look my way from time to time and laugh. His wife would put her hands on her hips, look at me and shake her head. I was told they asked someone if I knew which century we were living in. My little push mower was no match for their riding mower. No way would I win the Yard of the Month contest if ever we had one, again.
Funny thing happened, though. As I pushed and pulled and twisted and turned to wrestle that little mower through the grass, I got stronger and stronger. I was on a mission to improve both my health and the health of my lawn - all without the loud noise of a power mower or the use of gas. I mowed on while the neighbors laughed, and the price of gas went up. Oh, did I mention that they have to buy gas for their big, fancy mower, and I don't. At over $4.00 a gallon, who's laughing now?
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