Green Grass of Summer

The guys who take care of the landscaping in the neighborhood we live in are here today. I don’t know if it is because of all the rain we’ve gotten this spring, or if I’m just paying more attention, but it seemed especially fragrant when they mowed the lawn today.

It, of course, takes me back to my days growing up in Western New York. My grandfather kept the grounds around our house meticulously cared for. The only time I ever saw the grass overgrown was when we’d return from spending most of the summer in the Adirondacks. It had to have been a sure sign that we were out of town. In fact, one year when we returned, the house had been broken into. The robbers didn’t take much. They were about to open a drawer in the bedroom where they would’ve found a loot, but evidently something made them stop in the midst. The only thing I remember they took were steaks from the freezer.

Anyway, back to the grass. Most of the land around my grandparents’ house was landscaped. There was a row of big trees that separated the front of the grounds from the back, where my grandfather grew a very large garden. Everywhere else, there was lawn. In the midst were big, tall trees, beds of flowers, evergreens, and a rock garden. It took my grandfather most of two days to mow all of it. Maybe longer. When I got old enough, I helped . . . it was a riding lawnmower after all, and what kid wouldn’t have wanted to help?

There is nothing like the smell of fresh cut grass. It reminds me of strawberry and raspberry picking, swimming in Buffalo Creek, chicken barbecues, riding bikes, softball, and tennis. It makes me yearn to go home.

We intended to try to get back there this summer, but it is looking less and less promising. Which is hugely disappointing. Frank has been to my hometown, but Beckett hasn’t. And it was so long ago, I doubt Frank remembers much of it.

There is a part of me that longs to move back. To relive those days of waking to birdsong, windows wide open, the hum of the lawn mower, and the smells of summer. I learned all too well the last time I visited that going back isn’t possible. The logic though, doesn’t diminish the tug on my heartstrings.