Yard Care For Morons

Adding to my personal book of truths is #386, which reads, “Mowing a lawn, especially one of a substantial length, to a desired even height is impossible when done with a weed trimmer. This method is to be employed only when absolutely necessary.”

It would seem simple enough, even easy in theory. Just hold the tool level with the turf and sweep from side to side until done. This tool, coined the “Weed Eater,” spins at such a spectacular rate that it appears to have even medical potential with its surgical precision. And it may have that brand of precision in the right hands I suppose, all things being equal.

When I bought the machine and assembled it, I had great hopes. I’d felt as though I’d cheated the establishment by purchasing a $40 lightweight tool compared to a $300 lawnmower at close to 100 pounds. Lawnmowers make such a racket, and spew fumes and throw rocks, as a currently shattered window in my car attests. But the weed trimmer is nearly silent in comparison, feather light and eco friendly. The lawn mower is such a beast, and could hardly be expected to remove old paint and wallpaper, as the trimmer seems to have the potential to do.

Naturally it was Lia, as it is always Lia who opines that it is better to fudge frugally than to spend wisely, who winced at the thought of buying a proper electric mower, as I had suggested. To date we’ve spent $30 to have our lawn mowed, twice, and shatter a car window yet to be replaced, all in the confines of 30 days. As summer approaches our lawns are growing quickly, noticeably longer in the evenings as they were in the mornings. Simple math proves that we will quickly spend the cost of numerous mowers before fall.

Our front lawn was in okay shape, capping out on Saturday at no more than three inches of 90 percent variety, with the remaining ten percent evenly mixed in at about four inches. It was long to the grass aficionado, but chic to the hip. Our backyard, however, looked homeless. It was starting to lean at well over 16 inches, with no sign of the once proud edges under grass and the vines encroaching from the now covered bark.

Thrusting the spinning trimmer into the center of the matted mess created a wet scream, and started spinning the grass like a kitchen appliance designed to make salsa. Sweeping the thing from side to side started the tall grass to fall, creating a magnificent defensive cover for the still seven inches of grass below. I started worrying about small animals frozen in fear under the grass and the nylon blades of fishing line tearing into their furry souls.

Lia’s look of financial genius quickly turned into the look of “You’re not doing it right.” She was pointing and barking at me with art-director concern in her forehead. I did what any smart husband would do. I handed her the tool and retreated a distance before looking back.

Watching from the sidelines it was easier to see that the trimmer’s head and cutting lines were completely buried in green grassy guts of lawn. I raked at the blanket of damp grass which revealed a disaster.

Lia looked at it and said it looked like a really bad haircut. I was immediately reminded of a second or third grade school picture of mine shot a day after I’d taken a pair of scissors to my own hair. I gave the bangs the most attention. And sure enough that’s what the grass looked like, only with holes where grass had never taken root at all.

Twenty minutes of hacking and gouging and ripping went by. By then I was frustrated, and in retaliation, I took the tool of destruction to the gentle vines and blanket of perfect leafy vegetation insulating the poorly prepared bark. (There should have been a layer of plastic under it, keeping anything from growing.)

It was slow motion war cinema at its most disturbing, something that would send a light-headed Oliver Stone careening into the theater lobby. I swung the trimmer-now-bringer-of-death into the fleshy greenery and bony chain link with complete abandon. I saw weeds and beautiful foliage alike twisting and writhing in the air. The trimmer’s plastic head was grinding against the bark of a giant cherry tree, then against an ancient rose tree, and then into the ground.

When I wore the nylon line to the nub, I pulled out more.

Chunks of bark were flying, and wet shards of flora were hitting me in the face. In my memories I see Lia’s contorted expression of revulsion as she watched the carnage, and at this point she had no opinion as to whether I was doing it right or not. But even if she had I wouldn’t have cared. At one point I stopped, looked at her and said, “There’s no question anymore as to who’s in charge of this yard.”

It went on until there was nothing left but the smell of chlorophyll splattered in the air.

“Okay, enough,” Lia said quietly. I turned and walked solemnly to the front yard, leaving Lia to clean up the mess. I went on to the street-facing side of the house, and made a much bigger mistake. Ask me sometime. It’s a funny story.

But when I returned to the back yard it looked great. Lia had raked and scooped and bagged the yard's lost innocence leaving grass that looked abused, but mannered, if not disciplined, the way a farmer’s son looks with the tight, albeit rough, kitchen-delivered haircut that’s got mother’s love written all over it. The bark was visible, the lawn edges apparent, and the fence free from besiege.

I then went chemical, and started laying down a suppressive layer of weed killer. What the Marines hadn’t killed, the Air Force certainly would. The bottle said that results could be seen in as little as three hours, in the form of unhappy-looking weeds. But by day’s end, they were as healthy as ever. And Monday morning they looked defiant, proud even. However, tonight as I rolled home, I recognized the sadness Bayer (the makers of my chosen Mickey Finn) had mentioned. I suspect by tomorrow I shall have the full attention of my yard, and they who seek refuge in it.

We returned the weed eater as soon as we were done with the yard, and now have our eyes on a proper $150 electric lawn mower, through which I’m sure to realize my personal truth, #387.