Grass is a plant to contemplate. From the poem Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman to The Grass Has So Little to Do by Emily Dickinson and Splendor in the Grass by William Wordsworth, this common, natural feature of the landscape has been duly celebrated.

My father knew the glory of graminae, which amazingly has more than 6,000 species. He grew up cutting his mother's yard, playing football on grass in college, and ultimately becoming the "plant manager" of our yard. When he built the family home, he got to sow his own lawn ― a true sign of homeownership. He wrote my mother's name with fertilizer across the front yard so that first grass playfully expressed his affection.

A landscaper designed the gardens for my mother, but Dad was the one who cared for the lawn. It was his pride and joy.

He had a series of mowers. In my childhood house, I often took my turn with a rotary (reel) push mower. If the blades had not been oiled and sharpened, this could be a troublesome mower that would seize up; the long, wooden handle jabbing me in the stomach and nearly taking my breath away. I usually didn't last at mowing for more than ten minutes.

We graduated to a riding mower when Dad built our new home on an acre-plus lot. A walk-behind power mower came in handy for trimming around trees and grooming ditches.

Mowing was a sacred time. All who traveled our street observed Dad riding his mower every weekend. Our plant manager never let the lawn get out of control. Today I have my father's mower, a red Wheel Horse. The H in horse has been worn away by time, but the faithful mower still serves me well. I ride the mower and tend the lawn in our household. I learned from my father about the joy of the time cutting grass ― as sacred and contemplative as meditation. I know every dip and curve of my lawn. I know how to trim the flower beds so they look manicured, and I don't have to use a trimmer.

As I wrote this column before going out to cut my grass for the first time this season, I read Wordsworth's poem and realized how it spoke to me.

Splendor in the Grass

What though the radiance which was once so bright

Be now for ever taken from my sight,

Though nothing can bring back the hour

Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower

We will grieve not, rather find

Strength in what remains behind. . .

My father passed 14 years ago, but his joys and values stay with me today. There is splendor in tending and caring for the grass in my backyard.