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. 

Gardening, growing a lawn, and enjoying life

Yesterday I planted grass, kind of. It was a bag of patch that my wife bought. But, it had grass seed mixed in with small bits of recycled pulp of some unknown waste product. So, there is a big, kraft paper colored spot on my lawn where there used to be a brown dirt patch with sparse grasssy outposts. Of course, the tufts of grass are still there. Sticking bravely through could be a chewed up wet box. But, soon, with luck, water and unrelenting hope there will be lush grass. Today I am breaking out another bag, my wife goes a little crazy and working on different parts.

Further, I picked the first cucumbers off the vine. A momentous occasion, normally anything I plant ends up dead. Sometimes it dies as I am putting it in the ground. A screaming, piercing death, a noise unlike any I have ever heard, until I deciced to garden. Once, I went out to found one of our tomato plants had uprooted itself, braided bark into a crude rope, fashioned a noose and hanged itself from the tree. It left a note and said, "sorry, Tim, I know you had hopes this year but sooner or later the axe would fall and the anticipation was killing me."

This year, though, things are different, our tomato plants have reached glorious heights and have produced actual tomatoes. Just small, green balls the size of marbles, or golf balls, all clumped together for safety. Predators are everywhere. It brings me a great deal of pride to know that somehow I haven't managed to kill these wonderful, hearty plants. There is still time, but, I think we are going to get along pretty well.

I've started talking to them, nothing too elaborate. Just pleasantries, mostly. "Hey, how are you guys?" 

"We're good." They will say. "Did you see the weather?" Weather is a big topic among plants. It can get a little irritating, but you have to be gentle, they are more tempermental than the president.

"Cool, dry, comfortable. Can I get you guys a drink?" 

"Please, that would be so nice."  

We talk about the various issues facing the world. They think we need to cut back on green house gasses, and try to stop climate change, most plants feel that way. But, they don't get too pushy, they are pretty happy with some water, a little sunlight, and sometimes they enjoy a little music. They really like the Zombies, "She's not there," really gets their leaves moving.

So, the lawn is getting better, and the garden, such as it is, is growing right along. This summer has been kind, and I am content. Please take a look at my latest column on the Wild Word. My life as an insider, kind of. Tell me that ain't a happy guy.

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.