The Great Yard Makeover — Popo Style

Dad had been talking about mowing the yard for days.

Not casually mentioning it. Campaigning for it.

Every morning: “Can I mow today?”

Same hopeful grin. Same spark in his eye.

He hadn’t done it in a while. Mostly because Henrietta Leghorn — the family chicken with very strong landscaping opinions — does not appreciate a crew cut on her grass. She prefers lush. Dramatic. Botanical abundance.

But Dad was determined.

And finally, Mom caved.

She said, “Fine.”

(That’s when the universe quietly chuckled.)

Now, their old mower technically still runs. I use the word technically with love. It’s missing one small, slightly important detail.

A blade.

Yes. A mower without a blade.

Most reasonable people would’ve sent it to the roll-off years ago. Not my parents. Around here, everything has potential. Or it’s an antique. Or “someone’s gonna fix it.” Or “it’s worth too much to just give away.”

I’ve learned not to argue. I just nod and hydrate.

So in the grand spirit of optimism, we decided it was a fine idea to let Dad use this masterpiece of modern engineering.

Henrietta strutted through the garage like a foreman inspecting a job site. If she could talk, she would’ve said, “See? It did come in handy.” Head bobbing with full authority.

Dad fired it up like he was starring in a John Deere commercial. Hat on. Chest out. Pride engaged.

Off he went.

Mission-focused. Determined. Completely unstoppable.

And you know what?

From the porch, the yard looked great.

Trimmed. Even. Fresh.

We put the mower away. High fives all around. Lemonade poured. “This is it,” we said. “We’ll do this every week.”

That should have been our cue.

Because in the middle of our celebration, Dad slipped away quietly.

Too quietly.

Apparently, he had spotted “uneven spots.”

.

Now, if you’ve ever cared for someone with dementia, you know this tone. The internal checklist. The need to finish what feels unfinished.

First came the hedge clippers.

When those weren’t precise enough, he escalated.

To the house scissors.

Not just any scissors. The good ones.

And there he was — swinging them with commitment, like a weed eater powered entirely by will and misplaced confidence.

We finished our lemonade and suddenly realized something was off.

Silence.

Backyard silence.

We walked around the corner — and there he stood. Hat on. Leaning against the tree. Resting proudly.

Job well done.

The yard, however?

It had more bald patches than a herd of goats after Sunday brunch.

Random tufts. Strategic gaps. A design aesthetic I can only describe as “post-apocalyptic prairie.”

Henrietta puffed up her feathers — twice her normal size — like a feathered sumo wrestler ready to file a formal complaint. Her lush, colorful horticultural haven now looked professionally xeriscaped.

She stood off to the side, stunned. If she’d had a shovel, she would’ve started digging a protest trench.

Mom tried — really tried — to see the love in it.

It took her about a month.

Because here’s the thing.

To us, it was chaos.

To him, it was contribution.

He wasn’t trying to sabotage the begonias. He wasn’t trying to reinvent landscape design. He was trying to still belong to the rhythm of home.

To mow.

To trim.

To fix the uneven spots.

Dementia doesn’t take away the desire to be useful. If anything, it sometimes amplifies it. The instinct to contribute remains long after the sequencing skills wobble.

And that can be hard.

Because you want to protect the yard.

The tools.

The good scissors.

But you also want to protect dignity.

You want to say yes when you can. Even if “yes” means reseeding later.

The yard can be replanted.

The shrubs can grow back.

We can lay new sod. Or artificial turf, if Henrietta ever recovers.

But that moment?

That image of him leaning against the tree, hat tipped back, satisfied with his work?

That stays.

That’s the masterpiece.

Caregiving is often about choosing which losses matter. Grass can grow. Pride is harder to replant.

Mom chose — eventually — not to bury him under the compost pile. She chose the story over the symmetry.

And now, when we look at those bald patches (which are slowly filling in), we don’t see ruin.

We see effort.

We see love moving in slightly chaotic patterns.

We see a man who still wants to show up.

One day, the yard will be even again. The shrubs will settle. Henrietta will resume her horticultural reign.

But this story?

This witty masterpiece of creativity, chaos, and chicken fury?

It will outlast the lawn.

Because perfect grass is forgettable.

A Popo-style yard makeover?

That’s forever.