The grass is always greener

YES! Greener. . .and taller, too. At least it's taller around our house.

For some reason I cannot fathom, my neighbors've been cutting their grass this past few weeks.

During this same period I've been nonchalantly backing out my long driveway with my eyes diverted upward, watching eagerly for signs the trees are greening (which they are). . .or fixing them horizontally out across the pond spying on male geese as they clatter about battling for supremacy among the females. . .or in any direction my eyes're least likely to fall upon evidence it's time to begin my spring gardening chores. Maybe even long-past time to begin.

Of course, two or three weeks ago I could feast my eyes upon thick stands of head-bobbing daffodils and crocus. And the trillium and jack-in-pulpit were springing up throughout the deeply wooded areas of the back and side yards. Buds were bursting. Our perennials were poking-up their sharply-wound leaves wherever my eye fell. But I avoided any positive thoughts about beginning spring gardening chores. Believe me: cutting the lawn never entered my mind.

In fact, I dimly realized that this past several weeks of relatively mild weather signaled this was precisely the time to split thick growths of perennials and transplant them while their clusters were still tight and close to the ground -- never mind the uncertain weather, the periodic freezes for which this area is famous.

Simple truth is that I was too lazy to do what I knew I should be doing in the garden.

It's just not as much fun without Nancy.

My neighbor Skip -- whose religious lawnsmanship demands he cut his lawn no fewer than three times a week -- never mentions (to me) my lawn and garden delinquencies. Nevertheless, his well-groomed grass greets my eye every sunlit hour as a sort of silent accusation. Never mind: I feel that I'm adding to the splendor of his yard, simply by ignoring my own. After all, the contrast IS remarkable -- and all to his credit.

Actually, I didn't even intend to cut the lawn today. I've been waiting for it to even-out. I have a free-thinking, self-governing breed of grass, if you must know. It kinda grows in patches: wild globes of green here, balding golden patches there, ugly yellow thatch throughout, dandelion and chick-weed evenly distributed. Equal-opportunity shades of green mixed in liberally -- every blade for itself. Sorta reflects American entrepreneurship at its best.

I'm certain the more-astute students of free enterprise among you will agree that cutting such a variegated lawn smacks of the worst sort of external regulation. Lawn-cutting-activism represents exactly the sort of creeping socialism most feared by my Republican friends.

Mostly for their sake I remain steadfast. I fear the domino-effect: first comes frequent cutting, then watering. Next comes careful fertilization. Finally -- god help us -- professional lawn care, complete with application of herbicide. Thence cometh perdition.

I'm apparently the sole remaining holdout in our small community along Maple Lane. Please don't think I'm improving my lawn-care and gardening skills purposely. I didn't intend to cut the lawn today. The entire debacle happened by accident. Who could have believed my lawnmower could have started on the very first pull? I have ignored that machine for a decade. Never have I changed the oil. Never have I sharpened the blade. My only sin has been filling the gas tank whenever the motor coughs to a stop.

In fact, today was a terrifying example of how one questionable effort leads to another, until all is lost. I wandered out to my mailbox right after breakfast, carefully noting along the way that despite bright sunlight and a cool breeze -- ideal conditions for lawn care -- the grass was still wet with dew. Surely not the appropriate time to mow the grass.

But the mail had not yet arrived -- which left me momentarily at a loss for something to do. I wandered aimlessly among the perennials for one unguarded moment. Without regard to my better angels, I made a bad decision. Noting some large dandelions, I went to my gardening cabinet in the garage, selected a narrow hand-scoop, and began methodically loosening and removing full-grown dandelions by the score.

I wasn't proud of myself. I knew I was doing wrong. Early-on I had said to myself: "Just the large ones, Self. That much'll be okay. Surely no one will notice." But the slippery thing about this sort of wild behavior is that once the largest are collected, the next-largest appear suitable for extraction. . .and the next ones, and the next ones until every dandelion is snatched up willy-nilly, and there appears no appropriate place to stop the endeavor. Alas, by the third bucket of dandelions, I was removing every weed in sight. Goodbye buckhorn and small thistles. So long chickweed. Arrivederci clutch of clover and wild carrot. . . .

Nor was indiscriminate weeding the full depth of my slide. Soon as I ran out of weeds I started "snapping off" daffodil seed-heads with reckless abandon. The appropriate time for removing dried-out daffodil blossoms was about a week ago -- before they went to seed, thus depriving the bulbs of the energy that renews them year-to-year. But the task had slipped by me, and what I stripped this morning were seed pods large around as the first joint of my thumb. So the damage was already done. Yet, on I went: better late than never. Better never than later.

Along the way, I noted that the daffodil clumps should've been split and transplanted a week or two ago. Too late now, I fear. But maybe not. My Gramma taught me to split and transplant perennials in the fall. Nancy always split and transplanted perennials in the spring. . .when the plants first broke the ground. In fact, Nancy split whenever she pleased. And she got away with it, too. Her plantings always multiplied. Oh well: at worst, I've lost a year of growth.

I've made a note on my desk calendar, first week of October: "Expand maple-grove beds. Split and transplant all perennials." However, I'm hoping to be away from home visiting family the entire month of October. But we shall see: perhaps I'll experience a burst of energy and waste it on the garden.

Sad to say: by the time I completed this late process of removing seed-pods, I had developed so much momentum that I wheeled the lawn mower out of the barn, filled the gas tank, set the choke, and yanked the cord. To my astonishment and alarm, it let fly a snort and rattled into life. I messed with the choke, adjusted the throttle. (But it wouldn't quit.)

Not knowing what else to do, I cut the lawn. It's a really small lawn: three tiny pieces out front surrounding a lovely grove of large maples and hickories. Takes under ten minutes to do the entire thing at a relatively brisk walk. One bag filled, and the work's complete. Well. . . .

It was a small sin.
May the devout among you
pray for my forgiveness!