The first summer of home ownership was a doozy for our marriage. Closing in April meant we took possession of a house - and a lawn - just in time for the first mowing of the season. But first we had to move in.

Jeanne Sager is a freelance writer and photographer living in upstate New York with her husband and...read more

With a mower promised as a housewarming gift, we were waiting on delivery and crossing our fingers. After all, it's as likely to snow in May in the Catskills as it is for the mercury to skyrocket. We were hedging our bets.

Then we met the neighbors.

Dave was riding a bright green John Deere across the yard. His wife was raking dead leaves out of the garden. She waved, a bright pink gardening glove flopping in the breeze.

I'd never seen anything quite that pink. Note to self: Must buy gardening gloves. Must find out where next-door neighbor bought hers. Must not go there.

The next evening, it was the other neighbor on a tractor, roaring along the line that separates our properties when I pulled into the driveway.
"Well," I told Jonathan, dumping my keys on the counter, "looks like the neighbors will be putting you to shame. They've both got ride-ons."

We were still waiting on our new self-propelled push mower, purchased by my dad from my grandfather's chainsaw sales and repair business. It was looking like Jonathan would have to be the only man on the block who actually worked for the reward of a fresh-cut lawn.

A week went by before a loud buzzing sent me to the window to investigate. The owner of the house to the right was weed whacking along the edge of his foundation. No sooner had I settled back down at my computer when the buzzing was joined by a roar from the other side of the house.

Dave. Back on his garden tractor, mowing.

Still early May, the mud in our front yard had finally been replaced by a blanket of green, and the expanse in the back was filling in nicely with clover.

"No use calling your grandfather just yet to complain," Jonathan told me. "We have a few weeks."

Pointing to the neighbors, I sputtered. "But, but, shouldn't we?"

He disappeared upstairs to sort through three boxes of t-shirts - all his.

Fast forward three days. The now familiar sound of a tractor - the background music to our lives in our new neighborhood - started before we'd finished dinner.

Dave waved gaily from the seat on his tractor when I stepped outside. I could see the neighbor on the right making his way to his shed.
I was back inside before the key was turned in the ignition.

"Jonathan!" I yelled. "Have you called my Dad?"

Five minutes later, he joined me on the porch. "What's up?"

I couldn't hear him.

"What?" I yelled over the drone of 90 decibels of gas-fired roaring engines working their way around each corner of the property.
He leaned over, "WHAT'S UP?"

I didn't bother trying to explain. I pointed. First in one direction. Then the other. Then I dropped both hands to my hips. Grabbing me by the hand, he dragged me into the house. "They're having their own personal war," he said. "I'm not getting involved."

He had a point. But I was embarrassed. The lawn score was neighbors 3 apiece, Sagers 0.

This wouldn't do. My grandfather owns a mower shop. I couldn't just roll over while the family name was driven over and chopped to bits by some overzealous lawn hog.

The next day I called the mower shop. Then I called Jonathan at work.

"Saturday. We're picking up the mower on Saturday."

Suddenly, he had to get back to work.

The next 10 weeks were spent in a race against Mother Nature. What looked neatly clipped on the morning walk to the car resembled a wild jungle by nighttime - after our dueling neighbors had ground the grass down to the roots on either side.

Jonathan would run out after a day at the office and begin the long push around the house, past the shed and in and out of the trees.
He'd drop on the couch, his ankles leaving green streaks on my throw pillows, and beg for permission to raise the white flag. I'd shake my head and wave swatches of Montana blue, sky blue or azure in his face.

The relief came not in September but the following spring, posted on the lawn of the neighbors to the right.

A "For Sale" sign.

As kind as they'd been, Jonathan and I waited reverently until the U-Haul had rounded the corner before we started to dance the dance otherwise reserved for the days the Yankees have won the World Series or Heineken introduced the little draft kegs.

The war was over. So we couldn't hack it living in the middle of perfection. Our union is stronger for knowing our limits.

By the way, we've been joined by the new neighbors on the right in the laissez faire approach to lawn maintenance. And Dave's investing in one of those zero turn mowers. ...read more blogs