“You’ve got to see this,” said my husband, Gary. He marched me to the back door, held it open, and said, “Look at that!”

I looked. I didn’t see a snake. The chipmunk who makes a game of terrorizing our yard was nowhere in sight, nor was the skunk who let his presence be known one night last week. I saw nothing.

“The grass, Gen, the grass,” said Gary.

What is it with men and grass? They complain and moan about how fast it grows and having to cut it but are unable to just let it go. Whenever they have a free moment in good weather, they can’t do anything or go anywhere because: “I have to cut the grass.”

It’s all a ruse. That’s right. The relationship between a man and his yard is really a love affair. He whines about cutting grass, but he looks forward to the peace a droning mower affords. The office can’t find him. His kids can’t bug him. His wife can’t nag him. 

It’s just the man, his mower, and the grass.

He plugs in his earbuds and listens to whatever he wants to hear.

Gary probably mows to Led Zeppelin or Aerosmith or Bryan Adams or Bob Seger. Or maybe Chicago, the Eagles, the Kinks, or the Guess Who—depending on his mowing mood.

On a rainy day, all he can think about is how tall the green stuff will grow overnight. It wouldn’t surprise me to discover he sneaks out while I’m asleep to measure the grass with a ruler under the moonlight. I’ll bet he’s got a growth chart for the backyard somewhere hidden under his tools in the garage.

A friend of ours who passes off as a darn good dentist also lives on a farm. So, he dreads working in the fields during his downtime, right? Ha. Ha. Ha, ha, ha. Climbing aboard his tractor and cutting hay—that’s his favorite pastime. 

Hay is “grass that has been mown and dried for use as fodder.” In other words, our friend loves to cut grass. When he’s late for picnics or other social functions, his wife Becky says, “Oh, that Greg. He loses track of time when he’s out cutting hay.” 

Just can’t get the man off his tractor.

Last spring, Gary went back and forth debating over whether to invest in a new lawnmower. His loyal Snapper was more than 21 years old. My husband wound up buying a new mower but couldn’t part with the old one.  He says he needs it for backup, that it’s still better quality than the new model.

“It’s solid,” said my husband. “They don’t make ‘em like that anymore.”

I’m telling your he’s attached to it in the same way he is to his high school football cleats—the ones he wears when he mows.

We arrived home from our beach week to discover the man he hired had not cut the grass in our absence. Gary stomped around for a few minutes before going straight out to attack the lawn. The next day, I was still looking for wild animals when he said, “Look at that. Does it look to you like I mowed it yesterday?”

On Friday, as we pulled out of the driveway, he surveyed the yard—no kidding—and said, “Am I ever glad I go the grass mowed. I had to raise the wheels up because it was so high when we got back. Do you believe I’ve mowed the grass three times in 11 days? Three times!”

We go through the same ritual once—sometimes twice—a week. Gary grumbles as he heads out the door to cut the grass. I say, “If you hate it so much, why don’t you hire someone to do it? Think of all the time you would have for other things.”

He acts like he doesn’t, but, oh, he hears me. A man, his mower, and the grass. Make no mistake. It’s a love affair.