Monday, November 9, 2015

The Greenest, Most Glorious Grass In All The Land

“Did you water today?”

I stole a glance out the window.   The sky was a little bit overcast. 

It was sort of misty that morning.  The sidewalks were wet when I went out for my daily walk, my hair damp when I returned.  There definitely hadn't been a downpour, but not quite a shower either.  Eh.  The ground appeared to be soft and muddy. 

Be casual.  “I didn’t have to.  It rained today,” I blithely replied, waving my hand.  Too much?  I inhaled slowly, holding my breath.


“Uh-huh.”  I paused, but barely.  “What’d you do today?”  Good job.  Total interest.

Twenty minutes of soaking a day for seven days, then about every other day for 14 days after that.  That was the prescription the lawn service gave my husband when they reseeded the bare patches he made by tearing crabgrass out of our small front yard ten days ago.  The prescription he passed on to me, the keeper of the house and apparently now also the one responsible for the front lawn.  Twenty-one days of watering.  That’s three weeks of doing a chore that he chose, one that I loathe.  Wild animals probably poop and pee on our lawn in the dark of night, a hopscotch square that the neighbor kids cut through from their house to their friends’ houses every day.  If we had a million dollars to burn, a good portion of it would be buried in the yard, home to hundreds of bugs and worms.  I hope they enjoy it.

We live in a part of the world where it rains regularly and grass grows naturally and sometimes there are dandelions.  Yet we pay for the promise of perfect grass and no dandelions, and we water that promise for twenty minutes a day for seven days and then every other day for 14 days after that. 

This isn’t even the first time we’ve done it.

I regarded the greenish 15-foot path that hints at the lush lawn that we will see in the spring.  One that I pray will take.   This time, please take.

Praying for green grass is not new for me.   Specifically, I pray for green that perfectly matches the current green, because if this green isn’t the right shade of green, this project will begin yet again.  I wonder if he is praying, or if he’s laying the responsibility all on me just like the watering.

Perfect and glorious green grass, please take.  And take with it all the conversations about grass and weeds and why does our yard look like this and what are these brown spots and how can we get every blade to lie just so and appear like carpet and be completely flawless every single day and I hate this #&%! crabgrass and what did the lawn guys say when they came today and I don’t think they’re doing a very good job with the fertilizer.

Meanwhile my eyes glaze over as I fantasize about cement trucks and front yards full of mulch and river rock and how much is blacktop, again?

Please take, grass.  Grow long and lush and banish the weeds and the conversations about the grass and the weeds.  Grow unlike any grass has grown anywhere else.  Make our front yard a destination on a sightseeing tour exclusively for those who get jazzed about thick, green, perfect grass.


Don't even get me started on the mailbox situation.



  1. OH this is just so funny! I get it. I really do. When we moved into our house- it had been neglected and empty for TWO YEARS. Imagine the field of dandelions and patches of dirt to be had...
    It was a PROJECT of EPIC proportions. Our fifth year it's finally green grass. Patches upon patches of weeds hidden amidst the plush stuff- but we'll take it.

    I think I could write a novel about grass. Weeds. Dandelions. Watering. And the cost of this infamous green you speak of.


    1. Thank you. You get it. You really, really get it. We had grass there, once. He killed it with overzealous fertilizing. He threw down seed. Killed it again. Crabgrass grew in the bare spots. It's still grass. IT'S STILL GRASS $$$$$$$$$$$

  2. We just cannot be persuaded to care too much about our grass, although I do sigh longingly when I see older pictures of the house, with it's lush, thick St Augustine. Thanks to kids and a trampoline and kids and droughts and kids and a little laziness, it's much less, um, lush. Someday we'll get it all fixed up.

  3. In our old house, there were shady, damp patches where nothing grew but moss, no matter what we did. (Let's not kid ourselves, no matter what HE did.) Now we discuss fertilizer and water rotations, and... (sorry, I fell asleep because I am boring myself.)

  4. Too bad it isn't THAT kind of grass.
    The kind you could smoke if it didn't take.
    Wink wink.