Peak lawn

It’s the time of the year when I have to mow the lawn once a week. That means it’s also the best time of the year to mow the lawn.

The spring wave of weeds has gone by now while spring’s rains have the grass growing at its fastest pace of the year–so fast that it starts going to seed, which at least lets me tell myself that those seeds will help fill in the bare spots.

It does get hot, but it’s not too humid and the mosquitoes have yet to arrive. So if I inevitably get distracted and start weeding or transplanting flowers, I don’t have to risk being used as a walking blood bank.

So I have no problem dragging my lawnmower and its extension cord up the basement steps once a week. (I have no idea what possesses people with small yards to buy gas-powered lawnmowers; the electric model I bought for $200 or so 14 years ago has been essentially free to use, needing no maintenance beyond blade sharpening.) Soon enough the grass will slow down, a summer drought will set in, ailanthus altissima (aka the Tree of Hell) will make its annual assault on my lawn, and in three months just reading this post will probably make me grumpy.

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August lawns are the worst

April is when moderate temperatures and regular rain conspire to make me dare to dream of a perfected lawn. And then every August, weeks of inadequate rain and blast-furnace heat leave that dream withered.

August lawnIt doesn’t even bug me much that most of the yard has turned a shade of greenish-brown. That should come back to life by late September, and in the meantime my lawn looks no worse than most of the rest on the block.

(The neighbors who had sprinkler systems installed, something we are too cheap to do, live farther down the street or around the corner.)

But I could do without seeing cracks spread across large expanses of the yard. Since these signs of drought happen in the same place, they represent my annual reminder that I didn’t do enough to cultivate a thicker lawn when I had the chance in the fall or spring.

The “hell strip” between the sidewalk and the street appears even worse, with more than half of it overrun by weeds anxious to demonstrate why yard grass should be selected out by this climate. (At least the heat and dryness seem to have taken some of the fight out of the Tree of Hell seedlings that invade the front lawn every July.) I should dig out the entirety of that strip and either re-seed it from scratch or put in some abuse-tolerant ground cover.

But as I type this, the thermometer on the front porch is showing about 94 degrees, and I just can’t be bothered. It’s August. All of this can wait.

 

 

 

A neater yard and an emptier screen: How spring kills my productivity

I’ve written before that I’m a writer with a gardening problem, but my condition is never more obvious than this time of year.

lawn pornBetween late March and mid-May, three things come together for D.C.-area people who don’t mind dirt under their fingernails: many of the plants you want return to life, most of the plants you don’t want run rampant, and the mosquitoes remain offstage.

Since I work from home, I only need to look up from my desk to see the state of my yard. There, I have problems that I can attack without waiting for a reply from a source, the end of a tedious battery-life test, or a go-ahead from an editor: weeds to yank out, seeds to sow, flowers and shrubs to move around, borders between the lawn and the landscaped areas to tidy up.

Some of this work is hot and exhausting–I must have transplanted around 100 pounds’ worth of plants this spring–but much of it can be done in short stretches before I shower or right after some other chore that takes me outside, like getting the mail or taking in the trash and recycling. Plus, with many of the fast-spreading weeds that infest my yard every spring–I must have yanked out 15 pounds of chickweed and deadnettles so far–there’s the seductive promise that with a twist of a weeding fork in the right spot, I can painlessly dislodge a massive clot of uninvited foliage.

And as a 10-minute break stretches into an hour and I realize that my hands have gotten too dirty for me to want to check my phone, upstairs I have a half-written e-mail, a document that stops with my byline and a blog post that only consists of a handful of links. But when I do return to those things, the view outside will please me so much more.