Despite my ignorance, there we things in our yard that even I, the grass and garden neophyte, understood needed fixing. Our flower beds were a mess. Our front yard looked like it was only missing a rusty pickup truck on cinderblocks. Worst of all was the tree that dropped little red berries over everything. Sure, it looks fun in a Skittles commercial, but it’s no fun to glide down a slide splotched with nature’s jelly, or track smashed berries into the house, or scrape smucker smudge from toys and slides and engine hoods. It’s even less fun when birds eat the berries, fly back into the tree, then turn the backyard into a big bird berry bathroom.
Fortunately, the landscaper and his dedicated crew took care of all this with the kind of knowledge and expertise I and my TiVo remote-calloused hands will never know. Our house looks great on the outside, and will for several months to come. Or, if we forget to water the yard, several days to come. Did I mention how living things are annoying?
There is one backyard job I own outright: I am the official lawnmower and weed wacker in the family. Mowing a lawn is not about the destination, nor the journey. It’s about the gear-up: Breaking out my special berry-stained Nike sneakers, donning protective sun goggles that shield my eyes from incoming twigs and sharp toy pieces, wearing a large-brimmed granny-style sun hat, and setting my iPod on just the right Neil Diamond playlist for power mowing. Once outfitted, I look like the kind of neighbor people cross the street to avoid. I’m also two black socks away from looking like my Dad. But nothing makes me feel more manly than letting the thing drive itself while I pretend to push it, all the while listening to “I Am…I Said.”
The weed whacker is a different story. It’s the closest thing we have in the house to a weapon of mass destruction. Wielding it, I feel like I’m holding a motorcycle that’s always an inch away from inflicting nasty, painful cuts all over my shins. I can’t help but be frightened by it.
Once done mowing and whacking, I put Neil on pause, wipe my brow, and take in the rich scents of freshly-cut lawn. Smells like…victory. I consider getting out the broom to sweep cut grass from the sidewalk, then decide instead to track berries into the house, pour myself a diet soda, and pray for rain to do it for me.
Next week, my landscaper is laying down sod, which I’ve come to learn is like a toupee for your dirt. I hope it’s more like a Ted Danson kind of sod than a Marv Albert kind of sod, but I trust the contractor knows what he’s doing. He knows my town. He knows my wife and me. He knows the other green stuff that’ll soon be transferring from my bank account to his. And he knows there’ll always be work for him in this town that adores pretty leafy plants with colorful thingees.
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