'Neath the Green, Green Grass of Home

Lately I've had occasion to read the obituaries from my hometown. It appears that grass is a particular source of joy for men back there. Here are some lines taken verbatim from obituaries printed over the last month:

He enjoyed yard work especially mowing the lawn. 

In later years he enjoyed mowing and weed-whacking.

He enjoyed mowing the yard and spending time with friends in the garage.

He could often be found in the backyard on his mower trying to keep up with the grass.

(We are a comma-less people.)

Anyway, I kind of like to mow, myself, but I can't imagine that fact making it into my obituary. In that same context, "weed-whacking" would be even more cringe-inducing. Nor do I want it implied that I was "trying to keep up with" . . . grass. That paints such a poignant picture:  It's like, the yard won.

 

Porter Wagoner sings 'Green, Green Grass of Home.'
1965. Songwriter: Claude 'Curly' Putman Jr.

The old hometown looks the same as I step down from the train
And there to meet me is my mama and my papa

And down the road I look and there runs Mary hair of gold and lips like cherries
It's good to touch the green green grass of home

Yes they'll all come to meet me arms a-reaching smiling sweetly
It's so good to touch the green green grass of home

The old house is still standing though the paint is cracked and dry
And there's that old oak tree that I used to play on

Down the lane I walk with my sweet Mary hair of gold and lips like cherries
It's good to touch the green green grass of home

Then I awake and look around me at these four grey walls that surround me
And I realize that I was only dreaming

For there's a guard and there's that sad old padre arm in arm we'll walk at daybreak
And again I'll touch the green green grass of home

Yeah, they'll all come to see me in the shade of that old oak tree
As they lay me neath the green green grass of home