Lawn day's journey into night

The temptation of Hollis the Mountain Man

by Sally Cragin

When Hollis the Mountain Man's Dad slipped on some late-spring ice and fell against a stone step, at first only his pride was damaged. Alas, an x-ray revealed a fracture under a swollen ankle, and the resulting cast and crutches were so impressive, even Tiny Tim would have cried. Fortunately, Hollis the Mountain Man's Mum is calm and practical. She immediately upgraded the cable-television contract to include the expensive sports channels and set up a card table next to Dad's recliner chair so he could tie flies, or work on a jig-saw, or whatever would keep him out of her hair for at least another half-hour, thank you very much.

Meanwhile, outside the house, spring was staggering into Tritown, bringing sun and rain in equal measures. The trees were greening at a nearly audible rate, and the hedges were overgrowing the house. Branches grew too near the eaves, making convenient springboards for punkish squirrels. Dead wood from a spring storm littered the back lawn.

After spending a couple of weeks tending and fetching, Hollis's Mum succumbed to the unwritten Tritown commandment ("thou shalt not ask for help") and asked her sons to pitch in -- at least with some of the outdoor chores.

Now, Hollis the Mountain Man's mother is profoundly domestic. With just a day's notice, she can bake a half-dozen pies for a Grange gathering or sew a granddaughter's pinafore with a pattern cut out of newspaper. But one activity fills her with dread: lawn mowing. "If only Dad hadn't given away the old hand-mower," she thought to herself, gazing at the gleaming green Ride-Em 2000 Lawn King Tractor-Mower parked in the barn. This was a small, stubby vehicle with a vicious-looking set of circular blades hiding beneath a "child proof" curved cover. The seat was thickly padded, and the tires were as thick and round as Happy's Qwik-Stop Old-Fashioned Doughnuts. A tube for grass clippings snaked around the side to a carry-wagon affixed to the back axle. Hollis's Mum hugged her elbows, and then shook her head. "There's no way I'm going to drive this thing," she muttered.

She returned to her kitchen, where Hollis's Dad leaned against the counter, drinking milk from the carton, and staring out a window at the back lawn. She considered chiding him about the milk, then saw the crutches and held her tongue. "Lawn's looking thick," he said. "Going to need cutting in another week."

"I know," replied Hollis's Mum.

"Doc says I still can't flex this foot, and it's the one where the gas pedal goes, wouldn't you know it," he remarked for the umpteenth time. "Better give The Boy a call, see if he can't come down." (Older Brother Mason was The Older Boy, but Hollis was just The Boy, though he was facing a pivotal high-school reunion year soon enough.)

"Good idea," she said absently, and then Mrs. Parcher called from the Library Trustees to discuss the new bookshelves, and all thoughts of lawn mowing were conveniently wiped from her mind.

But lawn grows fast in a wet year, and despite the occasional dry summer that scorches the grass and browns the trees, New England is a staggeringly damp place (a temperate "boreal forest"). And no finer example of "boreal forest" can be found in the remoter neighborhoods of Tritown, than at Hollis's Mountain Lair. This property consists of a tiny cabin surrounded by add-on shelters, like a house of cards, only less structurally sound. The cabin is nestled between Picture Pond and the flanks of Mt. Magoo (actually, Magoonamitichusimog -- a mishmash of French, English, and Algonquin that means "my idiot friend who lives on a hill near the island in the bog -- he likes it").

Trees grow very near the cabin, and instead of a lawn, patches of meadow grass grow thigh-high in the summer months. Maple, oak, and pine seedlings that have taken root are left alone, and low-bush blueberry bushes and blackberry brambles snuggle among more dignified laurel bushes.

This rustic landscaping is entirely intentional. When The Older Boy left the household, Hollis spent a childhood doing chores, and he had bitter memories -- and an interesting scar on his left foot -- from his adolescent struggles with a fiendish pull-chain gas-powered mower.

When his mother finally did call, a week or so later, Hollis prepared for a long afternoon visit. He arrived bearing a jar of homemade soup from his neighbor, Mrs. Tarbox, and went into the parlor to keep his father company while he watched a golf tournament. During a commercial, his father gazed out the back window and sat bolt upright. "Kee-righst!" he exclaimed. "That grass is ankle-high!"

Hollis looked out the window and said nothing. His father spoke without looking at him. "Wouldn't take you but 15 minutes with the tractor to fix that," he said in a plaintive voice. Hollis stared at the television screen. Millionaire golfers in logoed lounge-wear ambled across velvety greens and Miró sandtraps en route to the next crucial hole. He took a deep breath, and then said, "Oh, alright." He marched out to the barn and prepared to defy one of his most deeply held beliefs. That a mowed lawn was stupid.

FORTY FIVE MINUTES LATER, he was still riding in careful zigzags along the gently sloping contours of the backyard. The Ride-Em 2000 Lawn King Tractor-Mower was a dream-buggy, but Hollis was not thinking in words. The engine was too loud, and he was lulled by the brisk rocking motion of the forward movement. Beneath his feet, he could feel the hum of the churning blades as they gobbled up the grass and sent the mulched vegetation to the carrywagon.

If he pressed his foot down on the gas pedal ("ER-ER-ER-ER- ER . . ."), he could make the mower go fast, and if he lifted up his foot just a fraction, the motor would slow down, but still maintain a steady speed ("er-er-er-er-er . . ."). Before long, he'd discovered the foot pressure that made the mower go at just the right speed ("Er-Er-Er-Er-Er . . ."). Plus, there was the fun of steering, so that the tractor didn't overlap the last cut swathe but just edged it, leaving no blades of grass between rows. This took a little finesse, but soon Hollis was cutting like a pro.

"Er-Er-Er-Er-Er . . ." The motor was so loud, that it made white noise, and after Hollis got used to that, it was almost like silence. "Like silence without the quiet," thought Hollis, chuckling to himself. "Er-Er-Er-Er-Er . . ." The movement, the steady chopping of the blades, the rocking of the seat, the vibrations surging from the engine all combined to put Hollis into a condition neuroscientists might liken to the "alpha state." He was soothed. "Er-Er-Er-Er-Er . . ." He was very soothed. "Er-Er-Er-Er-Er . . ." He was very, very, soothed . . . Except for some screaming that was breaking his concentration. He pushed back the brim of his cap and saw his parents standing on the porch steps looking agitated. Hollis motored serenely towards them.

"You've been out there for nearly an hour!" his Mum exclaimed. "The noise was driving me crazy!" His Dad was silent, but he looked enviously at the plush, emerald turf. Hollis looked back. His handiwork was assured -- the lawn was beautifully cut. He began to imagine the Mountain Lair free of trees, covered only with a luminous jade blanket. Oh, the pleasures of motoring along in this dynamic little vehicle! Oh the satisfaction of a job well.

"Hollis," his father said. "When ya gedda minute -- we need to put some fertilizer near the trees. They're not gettin' enough light." Hollis arrived back on earth with a bump. Of course, the Ride-Em 2000 Lawn King Tractor-Mower did not live alone in the barn -- it shared space with a greenhouse's worth of gardening supplies. Only through hours of patient application, painstaking care, and hundreds of dollars was this verdant luster achieved.

Hollis turned off the motor. He was going to have to think about this.

IF YOU'VE RUN OUT OF SUET for your suetcage this spring, but still want to service the birds, consider adding materials the feathered guys can use to fill out a nest: "String, (not nylon), yarn, paper, fleece, ravelled burlap, wood shavings, kapok, feathers, dog/cat hair, dryer lint, and soft cloth." These tips come from Lunenburg's Wild Bird Emporium (1 Main St., in Lunenburg, 582-7602).

Sally Cragin encourages the abolition of lawns, which provide no shelter for birds, or peace on a summer's day.

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