The Signora of the grass

Old men stand in small groups on the street by our house to watch me mow. Being men, I am certain they have strong opinions about what I am doing. As Italian men I am even more certain none of them agree, except that I am doing it wrong. People are often referred to by their eccentricities and I am sure I have earned a nickname like La Signora dell’erbe.

That I’ve started doing the mowing doesn’t sound momentous, but when you have over ten acres and are watched by hundreds of eyes from the village it quickly gets overwhelming, especially in spring when it feels like you can see the grass grow. I pickup up this, eh hobby, because John has been having some problems with his back and the experts all agree that mowing is not helpful. When he was doing it I would often be stopped in the square, sometimes by people I don’t know, who would offer their complimenti to my husband about his mowing which is why I know the state of our grass is of interest in a town where not a lot happens.

I first make straight, careful rows but as I start to navigate around all the trees my mowing paths begin to look like cooked spaghetti. I am sure there are best practices about this—how to mow around a bunch of olive trees without sacrificing one’s precise pattern. If it involves stopping the blade, I’m not interested. I think that’s cheating, like lifting your pencil on one of those puzzles where you are supposed to create a design without lifting your pencil.

My partner in all things mowing is the magnificent Grillo Climber. Grillo means cricket in Italian and my bright green mowing marvel can navigate almost any hill. There are a couple of slopes that need to be mowed parallel that do worry me in case of tipping over, which might mean death.  John tells me that the Grillo doesn’t have a problem with these slopes, except for one dangerous part which I will know when I get there. I think he knows that I have just renewed our life insurance policies.

There are always tall weeds and grass that are too close to each tree to cut and make my end product look sloppy. There is time to daydream while mowing and I think of strapping young men bearing weed wackers showing up to whack my weeds. And I do not mean this metaphorically. (I refuse to go British and use their term, strimmer. Weed whacker has that in your face American directness that I love.)

Before my new side-gig in lawn maintenance I never thought much about decapitation. Rarely comes up when pitching a client. Now, the brim of the hat I choose when I mow becomes important—not too large to block seeing the low tree limbs. I comfort myself in the news that Cate Blanchett recently had a small chainsaw accident (she’s fine…). If Cate can wield a chainsaw Nancy can dominate cutting the grass.

I’ve been at this for six months and so far the tally has been: John’s carefully laid out drip irrigation for the baby trees, ripped up. A family of hare, saved. The battle between a metal stake, the mower, and my finger, finger lost the small fight, but it’s healing well and wasn’t too bad. A field of chest-high wild blackberries (the dreaded rovi), gone.

Maybe next I will try the chainsaw.