I find myself concerned about the grass, and that disturbs me deeply.  Most of my life I have felt certain that there was very little that was less important than grass.  I cut it when I have to, go ‘tch, tch’ when it turns brown in August, and marvel at how well it grows directly over the leach field.  (Erma Bombeck didn’t have that exactly right.  The grass isn’t greener over the septic tank, but over what the septic tank drains into; the leach field.  But that’s just a quibble.  The book title “The Grass Is Always Greener Over The Septic Tank” is a lot better, and it sold a squillion copies, so who am I).

In regards to lawns, I have always found myself in my father’s camp.  He used to say, “One day I’m going to cement it over and paint it green.”  But he never did. Probably because he could get me to mow it.

I know that a weed free, dandelion free, green, even, perfectly trimmed carpet of lawn is a status symbol, but I never cared.

Lately however, the worm has turned.  As I said, I find myself concerned about the grass.  Since the arrival of Vernon the Vole, who I wrote about a year or so ago, I have tried to rehabilitate myself in the residential status department.  I have re-seeded, I have fertilized, I have watered, I have weed whacked and I have suffered deeply for it.

The lawn looks better, especially because we have had about 18 feet of rain in the past few weeks, but also, I think, because of the re-seeding, fertilizing, etc., etc.  It’s green, it’s relatively even, and Vernon and his extended family have moved to a corner of the back yard over near the shed.

So, where does the suffering come from?  Well, I firmly believe that a healthy lawn is a sign of impending death.  Or at least old age. When your mental processes turn away from sex, drugs, rock and roll, baseball, Meryl Streep, and flavored coffee to make that sharp left turn to caring about what’s growing in front of your house, it is the beginning of the end. The bottom of the ninth.  The credits are rolling.  Last call for alcohol.  Don’t forget to lock up on your way out.  Look down, and you’ll see your toes are beginning to curl.

But I deal with it. I mow, water, and occasionally gaze out with mixed emotions on my little patch of the planet.  Pride tinged with apathy.  Wonder mixed with ennui.

 Grass.  Really?

 smiley lawn