This is a rite.
But older men also lament the upkeep. They wonder why they planted so many trees in their younger years and why, for the love of God, they spread so much fertilizer on the grass. You can see the defeat in their eyes before they mow the first swath. They realize it is going to be a long summer and the outdoor work is just beginning. And when they see a lawn service truck drive by, they wonder how much it would cost to hire someone with a Dixie Chopper.
The wives don't help matters, either. Women are the ones who order mulch. Tons it. One day a man emerges from his lair to find that a dump truck the size of New Hampshire has backed into his driveway and defecated an enormous pile against the side of his garage door. He is still working on eradicating the pile from last year, and here is another. The mulch is so high and thick, it is smoldering inside, and a man's deep fear is that he will uncover the hot spot and start another Chicago fire. He sits atop the pile, lamenting, like Job . . . and wonders where it all went so wrong.
This is spring, and while the birds are laying eggs and the trees are budding, the manopausal male is soaking in the reality that, in a few years, he will no longer be able to fix the shutters, mow the grass, trim the hedges, plant the garden, till the beds, and maintain the property that provides for his existence. He might as well dig his own grave while he's killing the moles.
Yard work is not the hobby it is cracked up to be. The older male regards other hobbies as superior to pulling dandelions. Some of these hobbies include peeling an apple, watching ESPN, or playing golf.
But in the spring a man will do most anything to appear normal. He doesn't want his neighbors to think he's a slouch. There are appearances to maintain. But by July, he's had quite enough of the yard.
He prays for drought. And when it gets hot, he turns up the air conditioner.
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