Really lawn? You want to grow three inches overnight every day in March then taunt me till I have to lurch myself to the mower to slay you, only for you to relentlessly reappear hours later? I say, (in my best Shakespearean voice), “be gone you wretched beast!”, as I wield a jug of weed killer like a sword. Alas, the month of April set in motion the dreaded yard season. (Insert dramatic wailing)
Everyone who loves me knows how tumultuous the relationship I have with yard work can be. More like love/hate, honestly.
I often joke to my friends and family that I would blast my entire lawn with high powered weed killer if I could get away with it. Those close to me say my property glows green at night with toxic fumes due to my incessant obsession with killing grass and insects. Truth!
My high school best friend, Chris, used to lament she wanted to concrete her family’s lawn and paint it green so she would no longer have to mow it as part of her after school duties. The feeling remains mutual, my friend.
I just don’t get people who say they love to work in the yard during Missouri summers. Sweat, mosquitos and grass clippings are definitely not a cocktail of which I wish to partake. Equally unappealing, are groundhogs, armadillos, wasps, skunks and any number of other invaders who love to fight me for my yard space.
Did I mention my mower has no output guard on it and I look like I’ve been tarred and feathered after a mowing session? My son says I look like I’m wearing a ghillie suit! Just one more reason to loathe the task.
The only saving grace for me in this self-proclaimed garden tragedy is the fact the lawn that I’m tasked to mow has been occupied by my family for more than 100 years.
The flower and plant bulbs my late dad and grandmother cultivated in decades past, emerge each spring as if to offer a long lost wink and nod of love from my family…”don’t forget us” they seem to plead. “Never, ever”, I always call back.
I just can’t stay mad at that old yard when I recall the endless games of ‘tag’ and ‘swinging statues’ my brother and I played upon its turf. Unforgettable too, are the countless beloved pets of childhood buried beneath its surface. Forever am I proud of the blood and toil of my great-grandparents, who first cleared our land with only a small mule team and the palms of their hands.
Like it or not, I am bonded to this piece of Broseley earth I call home, for however long it allows me.
Now, where did I put that gallon of grass killer?