All’s Quiet in the Backyard

I am young, sixty-something, who keeps count?—yet I have seen the horrors of the green frontier. We mow, not yet broken, because the grass grows relentlessly, like an enemy that knows no truce.

The backyard is my trench, my battlefield, and I am its weary soldier, armed with a push mower that rattles like a dying beast. The sun beats down as I survey the line—ankle-high grass, dandelions standing like sentries, a patch of clover buzzing with bees I dare not provoke.

My comrades are few–the mower, its blade dulled from last summer’s campaign; a rake, bent and sullen; and the neighbor’s dog, barking from beyond the fence, a constant reminder of the world beyond my war.

“Quiet, Fritz,” I mutter, though his name might be Buddy, like my dog.

It matters not. Fritz is the artillery of this quiet afternoon.

We learned to mow in youth, taught by fathers or necessity, gripping handles slick with sweat, pushing forward through the thickets of suburbia. Now I advance, step by step, the mower coughing as it chews through the enemy lines.

A stick jams the blade—a landmine of nature—and I kneel, cursing, prying it free with hands stained green. The grass falls, silent, in clumps, like soldiers cut down without a sound. I feel no triumph, only the ache in my shoulders, the weight of a Saturday lost to duty.

Once, we dreamed of glory—clean lines, a lawn to rival the golf courses of legend. We spoke over beers, my friend Dave and I–plotting strategies against crabgrass and molehills. But Dave is gone now—moved to an apartment with no yard—and I am alone, save for the memory of his laughter when I tripped over the hose. The hose lies coiled now, a serpent waiting to strike, and I eye it warily as I push on.

The middle of the yard is the worst, a no-man’s-land of uneven earth and hidden rocks. The mower bucks, I stumble, and a stone flies—ping!—against the shed. I pause, breathless, listening.

All is quiet in the backyard, save for Fritz’s distant yaps and the hum of a sprinkler two houses down. The silence is a lie. Beneath it, the grass plots its return, roots deep as despair. I know this, as all mowers do–we win today, but tomorrow, the war resumes.

At last, the final strip falls. I stand, victorious yet hollow, the mower silent beside me. The lawn is uneven and patchy—a scarred field—but it is mine.

I drag the clippings to the bin, my medals of honor, and collapse into a chair with a cold drink, the armistice of dusk settling in. Fritz whines once more, a farewell shot, and I nod to him across the fence.

“Until next time,” I whisper.

For in the backyard, as in all wars, peace is but a pause.