Dane Wysocki, Guest Essayist to the Grand Rapids Press

In the tall, tall grass no one can hear you scream

We seem to be faced with a lot of choices in life – paper or plastic, Big Mac, or Whopper, unleaded or … well, unleaded. However, as homeowners, one thing we don’t have a choice in is that weekly, ritualistic torture fondly described as, “Lawn Care.” A misnomer to say the least, as some of us really don’t seem to “care” at all.

I am a reluctant agronomist at best, my identity not defined by the quality of my identity no defined by the quality of my coifing or by the lushness of my lawn.

My motto is, “I fought the lawn and the lawn won.”

And I am OK with that.

I spend as much time with lawn maintenance as I do preparing for my yearly dentist appointment. I hardly floss my teeth until that morning, hoping that maybe this time, I just might fool the hygienist.

The unforgiving fescue

My lawn is an unforgiving task master at best, requiring constant attention and a delicate touch, neither of which I am eager to give. Perhaps this is the weekend I will rid myself of the grazing sheep that have gorged themselves for months at my expense. Perhaps this is the weekend I will finally turn on the sprinkling system because, apparently, grass needs some amount of moisture. Come on, isn’t that what rain is for?

I begin this torment by silently hoping for a thunderstorm or at least a last-minute golf invitation. Shouldn’t my son be helping me? Oh that’s right, he is 2. Maybe next year.

Like the pit crew at Indy, I carefully and painstakingly prepare my lawnmower for a season’s worth or rugged use and demands.

I put gas in it.

At least, I think it was gas. The container found under baseball helmets and painting supplies clearly says “gas” on the label, but inexplicably has an “x” through it. I am sure I did that for some reason which unfortunately escapes me. Besides, how bad could it be, really?

My expertly tuned and maintained mower promptly starts after roughly 131 pulls. A combination of sweat and sear words begins to surface as I attempt to tame the beast. Alas, the mower finally sputters to life and I am now ready for battle. “Come on Kentucky bluegrass! Come on Creeping Fescue, show me what you’ve got!”

Neighborhood spectacle

On my very first pass across my untamed wilderness, I notice I have attracted a crowd. My neighbors have stepped out onto their porches looking down at me like royalty watching a parade. It’s as if they are witnessing something they may like royalty watching a parade. It’s as if they are witnessing something they may never see again. Some cheer, some give me a thumbs up, some just stare in disbelief, thinking this miracle will never last. It doesn’t matter, it’s not as if I am doing this for them. Well actually, I am doing this for them. Something about neighborhood integrity and property values or some other such rubbish. Did the pilgrims ever feel this kind of peer pressure?

Given that my lawn was roughly the height of a small child, I finally finish in just less than three hours; a half hour of actual mowing, two hours of breaks. Is it just me, or does lemonade just taste better after accomplishing so much? The sweet smell of success and lawn clippings pervades the air, my right arm almost breaking as I attempt to pat my own back. A job well done. Err … a job, well, done.

And with that, another summer of turf management concluded. Time to change the oil, lube the chassis, and sharpen the blades for next season. Yeah, right. Back in the dungeon where you belong.

Now it is time to fertilize, at least according to the commercials and weekly newspaper flyers. I feel I must splurge and I ultimately get the “good” stuff, leaving the “better” and “best” for those true fanatics. I even buy a circular spreader having learned from past mistakes that the “Discount” drop spreader leaves alternating green and yellow stripes, more reminiscent of Soldier Field than an actual yard. Landing strips for small aircraft yes, uniform tint of green, no.

I figure that whatever areas I inadvertently miss will eventually be fertilized by my dog, a happy go-lucky golden retriever named Chivas (named in honor of some kind of single malt beverage). He loves my lawn, or at least, certain parts of it. The “areas” he frequents are a cylindrical blend of dead, burnt, yellowed grass surrounded by a lush tropical rain forest. These seem to appear in the dead of night like mysterious crop circles. Although artistically off-center like a Picasso painting, they do give the lawn added depth and texture. A true “Field of Dreams” in my opinion. “Is this heaven, Ray?” No, it’s a subdivision.”

Onward to edging, a dangerous and complex task requiring precision, patience and, well an edger. Another machine purchased destined to collect dust next to the “Weed Weasel” and the “Leaf-B-Gone 2000.” I plug in my electric edger only to discover my tangled power cord is roughly 400 feet too short. Back again to the hardware store where I feel like Norm at Cheer’s – everyone knows my name.

I complete my assignment and all walkways, driveways, and concrete boundaries are neatly manicured down to the last blade. The quality of work actually surprises me as I proudly examine my efforts. Even my dog seems impressed as he leans to lick my face in joyous agreement. I wonder why he is so eager to demonstrate his approval, when I realize that in my attempt to keep with the Joneses, I have accidentally severed the buried electric dog fence in no less than a dozen places. My dog is now sniffing the perimeter and inspecting the breach. He is like the raptor from Jurassic Park, determined to expose the weakness and ultimately, bold to freedom.

“HURRY,” I yell to my wife, “GET THE LEASH AND SOME DUCT TAPE!!!” I frantically begin to splice wire after wire like a trauma surgeon performing quadruple bypass. I am shocked by my own repair abilities, and by the current of electricity now coursing through the collar which I am holding. “Yyeeowww.”

My growing audience now howls in appreciation to the show’s dramatic conclusion. Show’s over folks, “Thanks for coming.” “I will be here all week;” “Try the veal” … Don’t they have better things to do? Isn’t there some bark or manure to be spread? Who needs these dandelion police anyway? It’s no wonder I make this an annual event.

Luckily, my agricultural ineptitude does not deplete my resolve nor diminish my spirit. It gives me the strength to survive and the will to persevere. It causes me to search for truth and also for the number of one of those   “cut only” services. The battle of the blades may be lost but the war continues. For now, I can’t wait until my son turns 3 so he may follow in my footsteps down the (slightly) green path of life. He should be so lucky. Until then, every time I see a sod truck pass by, I will stare in silent envy wishing that I, too, could have my lawn taken away to be cut.

A man can only dream.