Spring Yardwork Whining volume 2

Last week, I wrote, among other things, about a bare spot in my lawn. My feelings that it might have supernatural, or even extraterrestrial origins. Actually, I didn’t write about extraterrestrial, that just came to me today, but it seemed to dovetail so perfectly into the narrative I am adding it now. Maybe a tiny space ship lands there, burning away all the vegetation and unleashing an army of clover, dandelions, broadleaf grass and some green mossy looking stuff that is almost impossible to kill. These little alien flora marauders crawl through the neighborhood taking over lawns, choking gardens, eventually destroying the mankind one yard at a time, talk about invasive species.  But, that is just a theory.

It is a funny thing, dirt comes in several levels of quality. Our “dirt,” the stuff in our yard, with little nutritional value for plants is called with much derision “clay.” It is the bottom rung on the ladder of dirt quality. There is topsoil, garden soil, potting soil, lawn soil, peat moss, bags of stuff I can’t even remember the name, a whole range of bagged dirt, from dozens of companies stretching into the depths of the garden center at the local hardware superstore. Some labeled “organic” as if dirt can be anything else. For this job we bought topsoil.

Anyway, I built up the area with several bags of topsoil. Topsoil is sold in medium sized bags weighing hundreds of pounds. It is like wrestling a floppy, compressed car stuffed in a flexible plastic shell. I thought it was going to kill me.

Cutting the bag open you couldn’t help being moved a little by the rich, dark, aromatic, almost beautiful quality. And, for a few brief seconds I felt connected to the earth, in tune with the forces that breathe life into seeds. I felt a deep attachment to the plants, struggling to break through the dark embrace of soil and reach to the warmth and nourishment of the sun. For the smallest instant carrying the heavy bags up the lawn seemed worth it. 

Until I looked at my hands and forearms, they were filthy. My back ached, my legs were sore, and shaky, and I was drenched in sweat. And I still had to spread the grass seed. Curse you, photosynthesis, curse you lush green grass, and whatever had created the bare spot in my lawn. Curse you all the weeds that had poked up all around my lawn, all over the neighborhood. Curse the rules of polite society that have classified the stuff that grows so readily, so easily, as undesirable weeds. Dandelions, with their bright yellow flowers have a beauty, and require no help, they just grow, don’t they deserve to live, too?

There are a few more spots in the yard that need attention. Today we are off to buy more soil, trips through the madness of spring time warehouse club hardware store shopping. We will look and my wife will ask which we should get, as if I know anything about it. I will steer her towards the smaller, lighter bags, easier to carry, not so liable to cause injury, and she will decide on the bags from the Scotts, or Miracle Gro, the best name for the best price. It is our little spring dance.

Still, there is something satisfying in yard work, I can’t deny it. A freshly mowed lawn is a treat, the aroma, the manicured appearance, the neat clean lines from running the edger along the sidewalk and street. Lines of demarcation, the sidewalk and the yard each have a place, and each should respect the other. The uniformity, the neatness, the precise, orderly green of man and grass working together.

It is work, and it never ends, but it is like life, if you put in a little bit you get back a little. And really if you can live with that you can live pretty happily. 

Summer, Old and New, the Battle Rages On.

Weekend in the summer, the yard versus me. An ancient battle, the clash of the titans, one blade of grass at a time. An epic struggle, crab grass lies just beneath the surface, waiting to pounce, and devour the neighborhood, dandelions pop up, almost too quick to notice, forget watching grass grow, try turning around after mowing and seeing the yellow, smiling faces spring from the leafy base, and laugh at you.

But, this year there is something more ominous, something odd, almost eerie. A bare patch, about 8 feet long and three feet wide where nothing grows. Grass, dandelions, clover crawl right to the edge and stop. It taunts me, defying explanation, it is unnatural, unreal, and odd. If I sat up a game camera I’m convinced it would prove animals won’t walk over the ground. Domesticated cats and dogs that prowl the neighborhood, and the wildlife, from squirrels, skunks, raccoons, even deer that travel from the park on the north side to the streambed and small farms that lie just to the south all would give the narrow patch of dead ground a wide birth. But, I’m not sure what else it would capture. Do wildlife cameras record an evil malevolence that is slowly awakening?

The Past

Maybe this neighborhood was built on an ancient Indian mound. Maybe it was a battle site, or hunting ground, maybe it was a miscarriage of justice in the name of progress.

There were rumors that the Memorial Tournament in Northwestern Columbus was cursed because Muirfield Golf Course was built too near the tomb of Leatherlips and the traffic and noise bothered him. Every year, like clockwork it would rain on the final round. To placate the ghost, end the curse, and finish the tournament on time they moved the tournament to the weekend following Memorial Day. This change seemed to work, because the tournament hardly ever gets rained out, Memorial Day weekend is much more meteorologically  pleasant and they didn’t even have to change the name to the “Weekend After Memorial Tournament.” Who knew a Wyandot Chief would be such a stickler for a government created holidays?

Southwestern Ohio and West Virginia are filled with tales of curses, hauntings and ghostly retribution from abuses of settlers, and the violence of local tribes spilling into the afterlife (I will have a full report with video after Our Amazing Vacation). Ohio is built on ancient forests, filled with dark spirits, whenever my wife and I get off the freeway, and take a state route I am reminded of the words of Marlow in Heart of Darkness “this, also, has been one of the dark places on Earth.” 

Meets The Present

When we walk through the old forests, and the rolling hills you can almost feel the old world trying to break through. Ancient powers straining just below the vale of modern civilizaztion. If you are lucky you can catch a glimpse of an old building, or power line or telegraph pole, slowly being consumed, torn down by the old world. We are only visitors here, and you see it in the casual disregard nature has for our powers of construction. 

I look at that bare patch and I see the power of history coming to reclaim its heritage. My wife, who is not as atuned to the old ways, the old worlds, sees a low spot that has been drowned too often (the curse of Leatherlips all over). Today, I will spread some topsoil, grass seed, fertilizer and water faithfully. Maybe it will work, maybe not. I will let you know. In fact, I might take pictures, kind of work in progress mixed with before and after, and then combine them into a blockbuster movie (actually more of a slide show) with music, special effects and a dancing skeleton (our newest travel mascot).

Spring, a time for rebirth.

Spring is a special time. If the intoxicating fragrance of flowers, the antiseptic smell of freshly mowed grass, the dizzying rainbow of greens don’t move you something is holding the lover inside you hostage. There is such an abundance of life and joy budding on trees, clawing up from the dirt, scurrying through the undergrowth, singing the happy song of life. Listen to the birds, singing, cawing, screeching in every tree, every bush, screaming a litany of joy at just being alive. Spring is the season of hope, and love.

Last year our lawn mower died, and we had to replace it.  I wanted to buy a simple reel style mower, three blades rotating around a circle, slicing against a striker plate cutting the grass in a delicate, gentlemanly way. Powered by me, zero emissions, a machine that leaves more than it takes. My wife said “no, you will hate it.” In all fairness to my wife, everybody said “you will hate it.”  So, we went and bought a gas powered monster, strong, loud and terrifying. It was self propelled enough that you could probably ski behind it.

But, the truth is I hate gas mowers, they are noxious, and unforgiving, tearing the tops off grass with ferocious velocity, hurling sticks and rocks like bullets. I cringe every time that cord is pulled, every time that engine roars to life, spitting exhaust fumes. The awful noise of thousands of explosions every minute, the rumble of internal combustion vibrating all the way up the handles and into me. Shaking my bones, my joints, my organs, shortening my life. Last year, shortly after we bought the beast it stopped working. Sears said it would take four weeks to fix the problem, no matter what the problem was, it actually took five weeks to fix and three weeks to tell us it was a plugged carburetor, and then they wanted to charge us to fix the mower. I will never buy anything from Sears again.

Anyway, while our almost new mower was off being repaired at the Sears Reeducation Camp my friend, John you can read about John here) loaned me a reel mower, it was old and he didn’t use it. John just collects things. But, I used it, and I loved it. It was everything I hoped for in a mower, quiet, efficient, and friendly. I can plug in my earbuds, and rock and roll through my whole yard. If I want to mow early in the morning my neighbors don’t even know, or care. It was the best possible solution. The whole neighborhood quiet, just the barely audible swish of blade against Mowing my lawn with Bob Dylan, even the haunting, intense, painful Time out of My Mind.

I would be crazy if I took you back
It would go up against every rule
You left me standing in the doorway crying
Suffering like a fool.

Early in the morning we walk together, greeting the day, making the grass a uniform height, enjoying the quiet of the early morning, the sun weaving odd shadows on the lawn as it peeks at us through the trees. Almost with a knowing wink, as if he were saying “don’t you two make a cute couple.” We wave, snap a photo of the diffused light reflecting off the leaves and branches and mow quietly away. A symbiotic relationship, working together we mow the yard, I get some exercise, and we are doing our part to save the world.

Even my wife has begun to understand the deep, spiritual relationship we have developed. Last week we were at the Anderson’s going out of business sale (you can read about that here), and as we were leaving she saw a new version of my old mower at 20% off and asked if I wanted it. Of course I did, I grabbed the lovely little machine, and went to stand in line, smiling, humming to myself, happy to be alive. Behind me was a woman, her shopping cart filled with garden decorations, planters and pots, little spades and rakes, a couple of small bags of potting soil asked “how much grass do you have?” Her tone led me to believe she didn’t think I would like the mower. But I do.

One of the things I used to hate about spring coming was the arrival of mowing lawn season. Now, I look forward to our little stroll around the yard, me and my friend, listening to music, cutting the grass and getting some exercise, and saving the world.