By LEONARD GRAY

Mowing the lawn. Cutting the grass. Whatever you wish to call it, it’s one of my least-favorite chores – until I get started doing it.

Sometimes, I put it off until it gets a few inches high, six or so, with stalks of unidentifiable weeds rising higher than the grass level. Then I drag out the mower and check the oil, gas, blades and filter, then yank that sucker up.

It’s a curious point of pride with me that I do it with one pull, while my wife can haul away at it five or six times without success. That kind of stuff’s important when you’re 48 years old.

Then, it’s pumping and shoving the mower, aided by it being self-propelled, into the tall grass. Sometimes, I’ll hit an ant pile and zap it with the latest ineffective ant poison (which has the effect of making the ants rebuild a few feet away).

The sweat is pouring into my eyes, my arms, shoulders and legs are aching, but a curious sensation comes over me as I near the finish. Serenity hits, and I’m enjoying it. A sense of accomplishment comes over me and when it’s done, I put it away reluctantly, wishing I had more lawn to cut. But I don’t.

LEONARD GRAY is assistant managing editor of L’Observateur. He may be reached at (985) 652-9545.