Taming the Wilds

One downside of having a large lot is that it must be maintained. That means weeding, raking and worst, mowing the lawns. And in this corner of the world, unruly grass is as certain as death and taxes. Of course, taxes you deal with only annually and death but once, unless you live near an accordion player. Grass must be hacked back weekly if we’re to avoid reversion to impenetrable wilderness.

Of late, I’ve been dealing with healing my rotator cuff and with two nice long bouts with the cold from hell. And while I’ve been temporarily laid low, the grass surrounding our manse has been steadily growing. I swear I could hear it taunting me each morning as I headed off for work. “See ya, fat boy! Have a nice day; we’ll be right here growing…and growing…”

The rain hasn’t helped. It’s been unseasonably wet hereabouts. Which had the duel effects of encouraging grass growth and discouraging grass mowing, even by my relatively healthy, anal retentive  neighbors.

It was growing while I worked, while I slept and while I lay on the couch coughing up my lungs. It had reached my ankles before I left for Idaho Falls and covered them by the time Daughter Two and I returned from California. By last week, it had completely obscured the windfall branches from the last two storms. Mostly, it just waited for me, silent, mocking. And growing, always growing.

Today was my day. My lungs were clear and the sky was blue. The grass was only a little damp and the mower started on the first pull. I did the manly suburbanite thing and cut the lawn to a reasonable height. Of course, it fought back every step of the way and the process took twice as long as usual and I still have to finish the back yard tomorrow, but the front lawn, at long last, has been humbled. 

Or so I thought. As I rolled the mower into the back yard and set the lock on the gate, I could swear I heard the rustle of growing grass.

Wait!

 SSHH!

Was that..  a chuckle?