You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy™
Trying to grow grass in Tennessee is crazy.
It is raining like crazy. Pounding molecularized moisture is beating down from a saturated sky.
I watch as sheets of water bang against my window and pound my roof like Tito Fuente in concert.
While I am not happy about this onslaught, my grass is clapping happily. I look at the tiny blades, half yellow, half green and they are extended, erect, dancing with joy as if the rain cloud is liquid Viagra.
I hate my grass. Well I don’t hate it like I hate ragweed or melting dog poop on my driveway. I hate it like I hate a pimple on my forehead or a nail that is snagging every piece of fabric I pass by.
When my lawn looks good, it looks good. But it only looks nice when it’s cut and trimmed and manicured and caressed.
And since I don’t have a lawn boy, I have to devote time to this chronic, constant, non stop core.
Summer time grass maintenance is ridiculous in the South.
In the Spring the water is thick and the moisture flows and the grass green as a Leprauchan’s ass.
But In June, July, and August, it rains about as often as a mother in law issuing compliments. The sun stays in the sky higher, hotter and longer. The brutal rays of heat squeeze the life out of each blade of grass until your lawn has more crunch than a bowel of cereal.
If this was 1930’s Chicago, my summer time lawn would have a hole in its head laying slumped over the wheel outside a sleazy speakeasy.
In August, you need a meat thermometer to measure the temperature near the curb where the heat off the asphalt can be a scalding 120 degrees.
During the dog days of summer when the heat lifts its leg and excretes toxins like a mad dog, Tennessee lawns stagnate and wither like rust on a 67 Chevy.
If you put your ear to the suffocating blades of grass, you can hear their dying gasp whistling the tune from the Good the Bad and the Ugly.
I know this summer time drought and brutal sun is coming. I know this death march is inevitable, but every Spring my lawn tricks me, hypnotizes me into thinking this year it is going to be different.
As I look out my window at a rain soaked happy law, I think, maybe this year the roots will absorb the right combination of fertilizer, weed killer, sunshine and water.
Maybe this year is the year that I transform my Tumbleweed factory into Scotts Turf Builder lawn of the year.
I imagine my lawn being featured in a commercial airing during the U.S. Open.
I imagine being interviewed by Jim Nantz. I am wearing Bermuda shorts drinking ice tea. There is a hammock nearby and my dog is playfully nipping at my heels. I am barefoot in a lawn so plush, it looks like lime green shards of melting butter.
Jim Nantz actually says “Damn, it’s good to be you. And how bout that lawn?”
“How bout that lawn, Jim Nantz.”
This is a day dream, and I know it’s a dream. I should know better, but my lawn is deceptive and it knows my weaknesses.
“That’s right baby! Give me what I need and I’ll make it all better,” the lawn says with a wink and a smile.
My lawn is like a sinister minx. She’s a drug dealer, giving me free schedule IV narcotics, getting me hooked and then making me pay for it.
“Hey handsome,” the grass whispers. “You want to buy a dime bag of Weed and Feed. You know you want it. It’s Primo stuff, lawn boy.”
Like many men, lured into the rocks by the soothing siren’s call of lush green, U.S. Open commercial lawns of splendor, I get in the yard and once again take the position. I am bent over and perspiring and covered with dirt.
Another Summer of impossible turf expectations is upon us.
Learn from my mistakes. Don’t worry about the scrutinizing ire of your neighbors. Don’t listen to the seductress growing around your home.
Unless your home is on an endless oasis of water, your grass is going to die. Period!
Deal with it, and remember, Grass isn’t just grass. It’s crazy!
So I look at the rain blasting the half green turf. I watch the grass clap and cheer and ask me to come and play.
“Bring your weed trimmer” it yelps.
Go to hell Tennessee Lawn. Let’s Talk in 3 months.
Life’s Crazy™