Mowing / Mulching / Kindness

It is October 31 in southern Ontario, and I mowed the lawn today. Throughout October and into November, we use the lawn tractor every few days to mulch leaves, trying to stay ahead of the autumn deluge.

Every time I mow, no matter the season,  there is a particular place on the far side of the back lawn that conjures a memory as clear as a photograph. Whenever I make a turn in that spot, away from the woods, looking back toward the driveway, I smell dampness and feel a chill.

* * * * *

It’s early evening in the spring of 1998, and my young husband is one horrible year into a brain tumour journey. Our teenage children are away, and for reasons I no longer recall, I have decided to mow the lawn after supper. The grass is long, but the job could wait another day. Looking back, I suspect I need to be alone, and this is the only way I can do it. The day has been beautiful, but it’s turning chilly, so I take my husband outside in a wheelchair, bundled in a cozy comforter and wearing a winter touque on his head. I’m nearly finished with the hour and a half of mowing — having stopped periodically to check on him and move him close to where I’m working – when I make that turn. I’m freezing cold, and there, across the lawn, I see my tall, once-athletic husband, huddled beneath his blanket. He stares into the deepening dusk, seemingly oblivious, when I wave at him. When I get close, I notice that his teeth are chattering despite the puffy comforter.

That is where the memory ends, and perhaps I have selectively chosen not to recall the work that follows: putting the tractor away, getting him into the house and perhaps into a warm shower, then ready for bed, all while longing for my own steaming shower, and some comfortable PJs.

* * * * *

When I get to the front yard, a happier memory is waiting for me.

* * * * *

After my husband’s passing, I marry a man who lost his wife to cancer within weeks of my husband. On a glorious August day that began with a sprinkle of rain, we stand with our combined four kids beneath towering beeches, hemlocks, and maples, six souls about to start the journey of family blending. We are surrounded by friends and family who have joined us to celebrate in a simple outdoor ceremony, followed by lunch beneath the trees. It is a very good day, and we have much to be thankful for.

Hard on the heels of this memory is a third one. Back then, we waited until all the leaves had fallen before raking (and raking, and raking) to clear the lawn in one long, hard day of work.

* * * * *

We have been married for just two months when leaf-raking day rolls around. My brother-in-law has loaned us his ATV and a trailer to cart the leaves into the woods, and I am grateful for this. We’ve finished breakfast, and my husband has gone outside. While he prepares some things, two of the kids are riding the ATV, and I watch from the kitchen window as I wash the dishes. They are having fun, and all is well until it isn’t. A  decision that should have been sound turns out not to be, and in front of my husband’s terrified eyes, the eighteen-year-old and eleven-year-old run into a tree at high speed.

The youngest gets a helicopter ride to SickKids for surgery, the elder goes to the Sunnybrook Trauma ICU, and the massive leaf-raking job is suddenly the least of our worries. My husband and I are in shock, of course, and because Dad cannot help with any of that, he quietly comes to our place to give the kindest of gifts. For hours, he drives our lawn tractor back and forth, crisscrossing the fallen leaves, mowing and mulching, raking, and leaf-blowing until the huge lawn has been cleaned and cleared, ready for another winter.

* * * * *

I was affected deeply by this kindness, but I wasn’t surprised. This is what my parents have always done best, and for as long as I can remember, they have shown their love and caring through acts of practical service. They have helped so many people in so many ways, and I know for sure that I would never have made it through my most difficult days without them. Equally, they have celebrated the good times with great joy, and I suspect my four sisters have many stories of our parents’ practical love.

I didn’t know where I was going when I started writing this piece, but now I see it. What a privilege it is to acknowledge two ordinary people who have made extraordinary impacts on so many of us. I’m inspired, once again, to remember that actions, no matter how small, can have a positive influence on the lives of others.