My neighbors eye my yard wearily. My grass is too high. My rose bush is overgrown. There is dead rosemary in the corner. The Evil Prickly Bush leers at me. [I swear that thing drinks blood instead of water.] Simply put, my yard is rough. I’ve wanted to rip up the yard since we bought the house last summer. Zef rolled his eyes and other projects diverted my attention, so Evil Prickly Bush and the WTF Juniper Bonsai Thing have enjoyed a stay of execution.
But it is time, my friends. All mercy has been exhausted.
People on my street take their yards very seriously. As I type, at least three lawn mowers are running and I can see one neighbor digging in her flower beds. It’s clear that Zef and I need to pick up our game. Zef, by the way, declared himself in charge of the yard. This was, I like to remind him, when we lived in a condo. He’s been deployed for most of our time in the house; therefore, he, too, gets a stay of execution — for now.
My living room floor is covered with old copies of Southern Living. I rip out photos of yards I like. The “dang, that looks like a lot of work” photos end up in trash pile with the subscription cards. I’ve been flipping through a gardening book from the 70’s that my mom had sitting on her bookshelf for ages. They were really into scary chemicals back then. I compare the merits of fescue grass seed against Bermuda grass. I calculate the environmental impact of fertilizing. I wander around Bell’s Seed and Owen Garden until I get a headache. Leave it to me to over analyze a flower.
It’s time to start digging and stop pondering. Next weekend.