Friday, October 07, 2005
My Lawn, My Nightmare
There are some folks who would rather be thought of as a devil worshiper than let a weed sprout in their yard. These are the people who have seriously lush lawns. These fields of green beckon one to run and frolic on them. To tumble, laugh, and think the world is good and pure. I am not a member of this club. Neither is my honey. I am, though, pretty good at looking at our lawn and seeing its many problems. What prevents me from taking action is a serious case of ennui. When I think of the time and energy I’d have to put into it to make it really turn into a veritable garden of Eden, I reach for the remote. And so our lawn just sits there.
A couple of weeks ago I made a fateful decision that has forever changed my lawn and changed me. I was walking down the street and I saw one of those lawn company trucks outside of a neighbor’s house. I wandered over and asked this lawn professional guy that I was thinking about hiring a company to make my lawn look better. We got talking, and as happens so easily these days, we found some common ground over the wit and wisdom of our resident genius in the White House. I told him that I had to admit that Bush’s lawn on his ranch was pretty darn good, but I’m sure it has so many chemicals on it that will eventually seep into the water table and stunt the growth of all those loyal Bush supporters who live nearby. The lawn professional heartily agreed. Anyway, this guy then said that he would be happy to take a look at my lawn. My heart began to quicken as we walked over to my house and surveyed my lawn. He then began to say all of this technical stuff that clearly showed he knew what he was doing. True, I had no idea what those words meant, but they sounded good to me. And then the guy turned to me and said, “Listen, we’re both working men, I’m happy to help you out, and for $10 I’ll spread your lawn with this great stuff that will make it green and lush in less than a week.” He then assured me that there were no harsh chemicals in this magical potion. My head began to spin. Yea, I am a working guy. I deserve a break. The Man has got me down. True, my work doesn’t generally lead to my breaking a sweat, but grading blue books is pretty darn hard, and it can be pretty dispiriting at times. I quickly handed over to him a crisp ten dollar bill.
A few minutes later I watched these magical (and supposedly harmless) pellets go on my lawn. The next morning I went outside and surveyed my pock-marked lawn. No change. I did this the next day too. No change. On the third day I began to notice some changes, but unfortunately they consisted of these weird brown spots. On the fourth day these small brown spots had metastasised into large, ugly welts. On the fifth day my lawn began to resemble the Mojave desert. I called the lawn guy who said that he could easily fix this little problem with these other, magical, pellets. At that moment I began to have second thoughts. I was reminded of what President Lyndon Johnson was told time and time again by the Pentagon brass during the Vietnam War: we can lick those darn Viet Cong, Mr. President; just one more bombing run will do the trick. I tried to banish this dark historical analogy from my brain and instead began to fantasize about what my lawn would soon become. The lawn guy came over, did a second bombing run...I mean non-chemical fixing up...we shook hands, and I smiled, thinking that we working men had just sticked it to the Man.
Well, the truth hurts, and let me tell you that I’m still feeling the big hurt. When my lawn continued to die, I called my lawn guy once again. He came over, and surveying my little wasteland said that he’d never seen anything like this. He then suggested that my lawn needed a fungicide. I said no more chemicals, thank you very much. I have since spent the last couple of weeks ripping up that part of the lawn which died, reseeded it, fertilized it, watered it, and prayed. And all for ten bucks. The Man has seriously got me down.