They say that the grass is always greener on the other side. Now, I will readily admit that I have no idea just who exactly they are, but I am very prepared to argue that these alien monkey people definitely haven’t been visiting my house lately. Because in order for someone to compare the relative greenness of grass, well, one actually needs to have some.
Apparently, I’m not allowed to have any. I’m guessing I must have offended the gods of Fescue and Kentucky Bluegrass at some point. Maybe I shouldn’t have spent my apartment-living twenties claiming that when I did, someday, own a home, I was going to have the yard paved for easy maintenance and 360-degree parking. Whatever it was, I’m paying the price for it now. Put simply: I simply cannot make grass grow in my yard.
Yes, I did say grass. That green stuff that’s everywhere you look? Yeah, it doesn’t grow for me. It grows in the crack between sidewalks, and in mulch-beds, but it won’t so much as peek up out of the ground at my address.
I’m pretty sure it’s like one of the most successful species on the planet. It’s supposed to grow anywhere you’ve got dirt, water, and sun. Well, let’s see…maybe I’m missing something, then. Dirt? Yep, got a yard full of it. Water? Check. Sunlight? You betcha. Grass growth…oh sorry, pal, you might have better luck buying a Multi-Lotto ticket instead.
In years past, one might have made the argument that my dedication to seeing tiny shoots of that particular society-approved weed was maybe, um, a little lax. I believe I’ve mentioned this before, but when it comes to a green thumb, my own fat little opposable digits are about as black as Cruella Deville’s Dalmatian-coat-wanting soul. And even beyond my lack of skill growing greenish-tinged things (besides refrigerator molds, of course) , I’ve admittedly never shown much interesting in cultivating anything capable of photosynthesis. My world used to be primarily about technology and toys; silicon over carbon.
Besides, it’s not like we really need carbon dioxide to be converted to oxygen, right? They just pipe that stuff directly into data centers so that on the off chance technical-types like myself happen to come down off a sugar-and-caffeine-induced work-buzz, we can keep chugging right along like a pensioner on a 36-hour Las Vegas blackjack bender. And we all know that anything that comes out of pipes gets taken for granted.
Fortunately or not, my relatively recent growth as a human has led me to understand that perhaps my former anti-greenery position was a bit short-sighted. That doesn’t mean I’m going to go out and drop a C-note on philodendrons or a nice fern, and I’m not looking to start living among the glow-trees of Pandora with the blue people. But I suppose I can see why plant life is at least a little worthwhile.
Then again, all this posturing that I want my grass to grow for a higher purpose might just be a little bit disingenuous. See, what really happened is that we had some work done in the yard a couple of weeks ago. It was the kind of work that starts with a Bobcat (the machine, not the animal) and ends with grass seed and straw-covered mud. Unfortunately, now that we’ve had a couple of days featuring winds gusty enough to get Dorothy to Oz, that straw was blown to the four corners of our yard.
So I spent most of Sunday afternoon raking straw back onto the mud, except apparently for the portion of it that escaped and was carried by the wind to wherever socks in the laundry go. I then watered my newly recovered mud (and hopefully the dormant grass seed beneath) all day, which is obviously why it rained enough on Monday to get people Googling* phrases like “Ark blueprints” and “animal husbandry at sea”.
At this point, after three days of rain and watering, my yard largely resembles a Wonka-style chocolate pudding field. And there are certainly no fledgling shoots of grass to be found. So, I’m considering starting a pig farm. Pigs like mud, right?
Plus, bacon…tasty bacon. That’s better than oxygen any old day of the week.
*Well, yes, of course that’s a verb.