It’s started already.
Saturday morning, I was up at 07:00 participating in a police action in my neighborhood.
I was maintaining my own sector of responsibility, and ensuring that nothing got past my line. The mess sergeant hustled over some coffee, and pointed out a potential intruder before heading back to the DMZ.
No, I wasn’t part of an invasion force. I was starting my spring/summer lawn care routine.
See, in my neighborhood, you can beat your wife, kick you dog, and play loud music until your ears explode. But you do not let your lawn go bad. We’ve instigated court proceedings over that shit. I’m not even joking about that.
So, Saturday morning I was policing the yard for debris, crud, insects, bare spots, and anything unsightly in general. Then it was time for the first real cut of the season. Over the course of two days, I kept the tally:
Number of trips to the Depot – 3
Number of times I burnt, cut, or mangled myself – 4
Number of strips in my yard cut too short – 4
Number of times I said the word "f**k" – 337
And on it goes.
I got this from my Father. The uncontrollable desire to have a lawn so perfect, so green, that not only do my neighbors suffer jealousy, but they actually suffer physical harm from staring at it’s terrifying greenness. My Dad can grow grass on virtually any surface, be it clay, sand, or Formica. He will use all the resources at hand (including child-slave labor) to force his will on Mother Nature. Bare spots are to be terminated with extreme prejudice. Water bans are ignored out of hand.
I have seen my Father cut a neighbor’s grass, thus shaming him into working harder. Truth be told, I participated in that shaming. And I’ll confess it now. It felt damn good. It felt like being a MAN. I spell M-A-N.
See, any asshole can read enough cookbooks to be good with a grill. Anybody can learn to chug beer, appreciate good scotch, or explain the designated-hitter rule. Even in this momentary downblip in our economy, being a man-sized wage-earner doesn’t take too much work.
But having a lawn that scares small children with it’s greenness projects more power than an aircraft carrier in the Gulf.
It means that when people move into the neighborhood, they’ll ask you "What’s up with that lawn? It’s pretty green for December."
It means that when you speak, people damn-well listen. You get the idea.
For me, it started last year when I saw the mess that my yard had become under the communist regime that lived here before me. I stormed the beaches and freed my yard from the oppressive yoke of neglect (read communism) and stupid landscaping.
I spent hours at various nurseries getting as much information as I could. I bought hundreds of dollars worth of chemicals, fertilizer, grass seed, and tools. I spent entire weekends out in the trenches.
And now, I’m doing it again. Lawn care is a war you fight nine months out of every year. Sort of like living in Central America.
So, I’m at war again. Starting last weekend. I have a loose alliance with my two closest neighbors. We held a summit meeting in the cul-de-sac to plan an attack on the Creeping Charlie that’s invaded.
An intelligence officer was dispatched to Home Depot to determine the best means of killing it. Procurement specialists were dispatched to canvass the countryside for a particularly efficient blend of chemicals.
And we all worked to ensure that the three yards were covered.
But you can bet your ass that I’m watching those sneaky bastards. They, like me, know that victory in this war only comes from crushing the competition. I know that one of them has developed the perfect automatic irrigation system.
And I think he’s going to use it.
