Every year, as the days get shorter and the grocery stores start stacking canned cranberries into small architectural marvels, I cling to one simple dream: mowing my lawn on my birthday.
My birthday falls in late November, this year on the Saturday after Thanksgiving, a time when most people are busy pretending the snowblower looks like it should start just fine. There’s always that moment in the garage where you stare at it from a safe emotional distance, nodding reassuringly. “Yep. Looks healthy.” And yet you don’t dare pull the cord because deep down you know you’ll end up making sounds that resemble a small child weeping into a handkerchief.
But me? Every year, with unwavering conviction, when it’s time to blow out the candles, I don’t ask for world peace or a Vikings playoff run. (Both equally unrealistic.) I ask for the one thing no sane Minnesotan should be wishing for in late November: one more mow.
Does the grass need it? Absolutely not. By November my lawn is about as active as a teenager on Christmas break—motionless, unbothered, and vaguely resentful of any attempt to get it moving. The grass hasn’t needed attention since after Labor Day.
But that’s not important.
What is important is what it means.
When I can mow on my birthday, it means Old Man Winter is still loitering somewhere in northern Canada, probably stuck behind a jackknifed semi. If I can fire up the mower the week of Thanksgiving, maybe it means he’s having trouble clearing Customs. I can picture the agent leaning over the counter, saying “Sir, we need you to declare all forms of precipitation,” which slows things down considerably.
Whatever the holdup, he hasn’t found Minnesota yet. And that final roar of Mr. Briggs & Stratton feels like a tiny but meaningful victory. A personal protest against the inevitable. A whispered message to the cosmos: Not today.
It’s 90 minutes of pretending I don’t live in a state where windshield scrapers are considered “essential equipment,” like insulin pumps or pacemakers.
A birthday mow is my superstition — my own woolly-mammoth warding ritual. Some people knock on wood; I roll a mower over half-frozen turf and pretend November is just late September wearing a coat. It’s ridiculous, and I know it’s ridiculous, but it’s also extremely Minnesotan, which is basically ridiculousness mixed with determination and served in a crockpot.
And this year?
We almost made it.
Right up until Monday night, there was still a faint, foolish glimmer of hope. The lawn was dry. The mower was gassed. I had my gloves ready like a man preparing for a ceremonial event.
The snow did come, but not with the fury we’d been warned about — not the Snowmageddon they’d been breathlessly predicting. Instead, it drifted in quietly, politely, like it didn’t want to interrupt anyone’s Thanksgiving prep.
Overnight, the summer green of our lawns surrendered to a soft, powdery dusting. Not a storm, not a blizzard — just enough to remind us that Old Man Winter had finally found his way home.
This year there will be no wonderfully stubborn satisfaction of pushing a mower across crunchy, near-frozen grass. I’ll miss the neighbors peeking from behind fogged-up windows, holding steaming mugs of something seasonal and whispering, “Is he OK?” and, “Should we call someone?”
While they’re out scraping frost off their windshields and stringing Christmas lights I had hoped to trudge along like it’s mid-June, giving them a friendly wave: Yep, still mowing. Yep, still pretending winter’s not coming.
By now, mowing has nothing to do with lawn care. It’s about hope — thin, improbable, gloriously delusional Minnesotan hope. It’s about tricking yourself, however briefly, into believing the snow might hold off until December, maybe even January if we’re all very, very good this year.
But then the forecast rolled in — that smug little weather map with snowflakes hovering over Minnesota like they owned the place. Old Man Winter finally remembered his itinerary, gathered his storm clouds, and decided to arrive before my birthday. Like a relative who shows up before you’ve vacuumed.
So yes, my hopes and dreams are officially dashed for 2025. The mower goes back into hibernation, tucked away like a bear that doesn’t want to be disturbed until Mother’s Day. Saturday I won’t be mowing — I’ll be standing in the yard, staring at the sky, muttering, “We were this close.”
Still… there’s always next year.
And in Minnesota, hope springs eternal — usually sometime around June, right after we stop scraping ice off our grills.
Mark Glende, Rosemount, is an elementary school custodian. “I write about real-life stories with a slight twist of humor,” he says. “I’m not smart enough to make this stuff up.”
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