Why I Finally Bought a Self Propelled Lawn Mower (and What My Dad Was Really Trying to Tell Me)

When I was a kid, I’d watch my dad mow the lawn about once a week. We lived in a 1960s split-entry home in a neighborhood with over a hundred houses that all looked the same. Square front lawns, all of us out there on Saturdays, some people clearly better at the upkeep than others.

Dad would come home from his job as a computer engineer still in his crisp white button-down shirt, a couple of pens tucked into the front pocket. The work pants came off. On went the black shorts, black socks, those dark slip-on work shoes. But the white button-down stayed. Every time. Then out he’d go to mow.

I’d watch him through the big picture window in our living room. I wanted to help. I wanted to push the mower. I wanted to be outside doing what he was doing. But Dad always had the same answer.

No.

He was convinced I’d get hurt. I think I even remember him saying something about me possibly cutting off my foot. In his defense he was probably still traumatized by my sister losing her big toe when riding a bike barefoot. Yes… this really happened. At the time, I thought it was completely unfair. Now, decades and a few power tools of my own later, I understand it was just him loving me the only way he knew how to show it.

Saturdays That Shaped Me

My parents divorced when I was 14, and my mom and I moved to a rental in town. By the time I was finally old enough to mow a lawn, I wasn’t living at that house anymore. Life had shifted, and I didn’t spend that kind of time there, and Dad never really asked me to.

What we had instead were Saturdays. Grocery shopping, then lunch at the Greenhouse Café in Nashua, New Hampshire. I loved that restaurant so much that when I got married, I had them cater my backyard wedding.

Those Saturdays are where I learned which fork to use and when. Where I discovered I loved fine dining, and that mussels in garlic wine sauce were my thing, which was not exactly typical for a teenager in the 80s. I felt lucky. I felt seen by my dad.

At the grocery store, we worked from a detailed list. My dad was a private, modest man, raised by his grandparents after his own parents decided they were too young to raise him. He grew up believing his father was actually his older brother, and didn’t learn the truth until his teens. He didn’t talk about it. He wasn’t someone who opened up easily.

He knew he was raising a girl, though, so when we passed the aisle with the feminine products, he’d give a little cock of his head toward it and ask, “Do you need anything down that aisle?” I don’t think he even liked looking down that aisle. But he asked every time.

Things were pretty chaotic during those growing-up years. My mom had a looser approach to rules, more interested in being a friend than a mother, and I was left to my own devices a lot. I was probably the right kid for that kind of freedom. I’ve never been much of a risk-taker, and I tend to set my own boundaries when nobody else does it for me.

Looking back, I probably should have lived with my dad. As a teenager, I didn’t appreciate his rules. Today, I see them completely differently. He wasn’t trying to control me. He was trying to protect me.

As a child, Dad wouldn’t let me mow the lawn because he thought I’d get hurt. As a teenager, I chose the house with fewer rules. As an adult, I finally understand that those rules came from love. And now, every time I mow my own lawn, I think of him.

Learning to Mow My Own Way

Here’s the thing nobody tells you: not getting to mow as a kid means you figure it out on your own terms, later, and in pieces.

At my first house, in Massachusetts, my mowing was minimal at best. I’d planted perennials through most of the yard, so a weed wacker did most of the work I needed done. My next place was a condo in Portsmouth, where the condo association supplied a corded electric mower on the cheap. Small lot, small mowing area, cord dragging behind me the whole time. At my third house, the man I lived with handled the mowing, so I didn’t have to think about it at all.

Then I moved to my little Vermont cottage, and everything changed.

This wasn’t a tiny suburban lawn anymore.

It was a hilly yard surrounded by gardens, trees, and woodland.

Suddenly, choosing the right self propelled lawn mower wasn’t just about convenience.

It was about making the work sustainable.

This yard is not flat, forgiving, or small. There’s a hill on the north side, where I mow around raised garden beds on a steepish slope. The front yard, on the south side, wraps around a spring head and flower beds. And then there’s the section I call “the flat,” an area that only exists because I had a lot of tree work done back when I bought the place in 2020, and what used to be woods is now open, mowable ground.

This wasn’t the tiny patch of grass I had known before.

This was Vermont.

Steep.

Wooded.

A little wild.

Exactly the kind of yard that teaches you respect for good equipment.

Why I Upgraded to a Self-Propelled Mower

For a while, I mowed all of that with a Ryobi 40-volt push mower with a 6-hour battery. It did the job, but pushing a mower up and down a hillside, battery draining faster than I wanted, started to wear on me. Eventually I passed that mower along to my daughter and her boyfriend, whose yard is flat and forgiving in all the ways mine isn’t.

I upgraded to the Ryobi 40V Brushless self propelled lawn mower with an 8Ah battery, a multi-blade deck, and enough power to handle my hilly Vermont yard.

The self-propel system completely changed the experience.

Instead of wrestling the mower uphill, I could focus on enjoying the work.

That might sound dramatic…

But after six years of pushing a mower across uneven ground, it honestly felt like a luxury.

There’s something almost funny about it, honestly. My dad wouldn’t let a kid near a mower because he was afraid of what could go wrong. Here I am, decades later, choosing a mower based on battery runtime and self-propel torque because I’ve got hills to manage and I fully intend to be the one managing them.

Why I Chose Battery-Powered Lawn Tools

People ask me all the time why I don’t use gas-powered equipment.

Honestly…

I don’t miss it.

No gasoline.

No oil changes.

No pull cords.

No storing fuel in my tiny shed.

I simply charge the batteries and get to work. It starts every – damn – time.

For a small homeowner like me, that’s one less thing to think about.

What He’d Think Now

Sometimes I think about my dad while I’m out there mowing. He was probably right, all those years ago. Power equipment does deserve respect. He wasn’t trying to keep me from learning something. He was trying to keep me safe while I was too young to understand the difference.

I don’t know what he’d think if he could see me now. A woman in her fifties, living alone, mowing her own hilly yard, running chainsaws, building decks, renovating a cottage, using power tools he never imagined I’d own, let alone research and pick out myself.

Some things never change.

And honestly…

I’m glad they don’t.

Every time I start that mower, I think about a little girl watching her dad through a picture window.

Turns out…

He was teaching me how to care for a home all along.

I just wasn’t holding the mower yet.