The Ballad of Butch: a Romance Story of Lawnmowers, Neighbors, a Conversation, and the Quest for a Sherburne-New York Pitchfork

As a teenager, I always thought my father was fueled by the once-a-year pitch-forking of the best lawn in Sherburne, New York. I think my grandpa Ken got it once and my father showed tremendous pride of that achievement. So, as a kid who had to mow the lawn every day in childhood, I always assumed it was a fetish for my father to land a similar garden took in his own yard. If you fertilize enough, water enough, and mow every day, people will notice. This was before his riding lawnmower. In my time, I had the push mower and I learned early to stay ahead of it before getting yelled at for not doing the daily cut. It was obsessive, it was bizarre, but it was his rules. It offered more time for him to play with Karl, his platonic best friend next store. They were inseparable and the wives were infuriated with them at all times.

Fast forward, car keys taken away, Karl moved to another state, vascular dementia, and age...well, the one thing my father still fixates on is the daily mowing of the lawn. It's not easy, especially with all the miles he's put on that rider to Chubby's and back (plus tours of the neighborhood). I think it's been replace multiple times. It's a manic fixation, routine, and source of conversation since we moved on to Amalfi Drive. It's just now he does it wearing my mother's winter clothes and a Saucony winter cap when it's 78 degrees out. He's also taken to sitting in the middle of the lawn, displaying not only his lawnmowers, but his snowblower, too. What is most fascinating is he turns his lawn chair to stair at the house where Karl used to live. 

I imagine these were his most joyous years and he's trying to lure Karl back to CNY to discuss, well, his obsessive lawn mowing. Cynde sent me a photo a coupe of days ago and I can't stop thinking about it.

The lawn looks beautifully green. It's always been plush and the envy of many, as it is like a carpet. Strange, however, is that he denies that he mows every day, says he doesn't bring his machines outside to park for others to see, and refuses to acknowledge the nonstop mowing. 

We've held the belief, "Whatever makes him happy," and besides Karl and their years of beer-drinking and talking smack, I can't say anything else ever did make him happy. Maybe chain-smoking Lucky Strikes, but those days ended around the time the keys were taken away. 

It is a topic of frustration for most, as it has been for years, but I can't get over how nice the lawn continues to look. I'm choosing to focus on that, knowing all this is sad and somewhat overwhelming. Age is cruel, indeed.