Mowing Lawns

Summers are hot in Independence, California. The echoing whir and occasional dripping of dozens of swamp coolers usually drones down the streets, along with the chirping and clicking of bugs. The smell of lilac bushes in peoples yards and sagebrush from the outskirts of town fills the air (and irritates sinuses for a lot of people), and waving clouds stretch from east to west to meet the mountain ranges that make the Owens Valley. Kids play in the creek at the park, older folks hike in the Sierras or the Inyos, and after awhile everyone sweats and pants under the cooler vents at the heat of the day.

I was walking around town one summer afternoon as a teenager, taking in the summertime sensory overload since I didn't feel like spending all my time inside, sweating bullets and bringing my pale completion from white to florescent pink, cooking in the high desert sun and wondering what to do with my day. I didn't have a job, and most people I knew had enough sense to not fry in the summer heat, so I had a lot of time to traverse town and its outskirts while thinking about more productive and entertaining ways to kill time. It was either that or watch TV, so I wasn't too bummed to miss out on my sister's favorite shows in exchange for pointless wandering.

I turned the corner of a block on the west side of town, and a man with a cowboy hat, big mustache, and thick glasses was standing with a lawn mower in a fresh cut yard.

"Hey kid!" he yelled.

"Yes sir?" I replied.

"You want a job?" he asked.

I thought about it for a second, realized I had nothing else going on with my day, and replied, " 'kay."

The man helped out folks with yard work but needed some help with his workload, so he asked if I could mow a couple lawns for a couple houses in town once a week. I agreed, and he told me what houses to go to and when to mow. The first place was a vacation house of a couple from Southern California. He told me he'd drop a mower off in the back yard along with a dump trailer for the grass clippings, and not to worry about it looking perfect since "it's mostly for fire prevention, really."

I went to the house a couple days later. It was late afternoon, and it was still blazing hot even with the sun lower in the sky. The grass hadn't been mowed in a long awhile, and it was a pretty big yard. I stood and stared at the task at hand, sweating and sunburned, realizing why a stranger would simply give me a job right off the street.

But dammit, there was, like, fifteen or twenty bucks on the line, so you bet your ass I mowed that lawn.

I spent the rest of that summer-- along with a few summers after that-- mowing lawns around town for that guy. The smell of dirt, gasoline, and cut grass stuck around in my nose for weeks. Summer sunsets were often watched from a stranger's back yard. I got a farmer's tan that made it look like I was wearing a white t-shirt when I wasn't wearing a shirt at all. The constant hum of a mower engine and tunes from a CD Walkman bounced around in my head for hours on end. The small amounts of cash I got were enough for a little food, music, and gas money. It was one of the best jobs I've ever had.

I ended up moving away and getting a real job, but for whatever reason I fondly remember being a kid mowing lawns. Maybe it's because of the funny small-town way I got the work, or that it was at a time where I didn't actually need to worry about money but had it anyway, but it comes to mind whenever I think about warm weather in the place I grew up.