As I'm writing this, we're in a bit of a drought. Rain is predicted in the future, but when depends on whom you consult. The pros say it might rain in the next six weeks; the Farmers' Almanac says it might rain within 52 days. Sooner, the better, for the sake of the lawns. Then again, why should we be concerned about the lawns? They obviously don't care about us.
Sometimes in the middle of winter you'll see a patch of grass, and it's green. It's starved and comatose, but it's green, as if it fell asleep fully clothed. Yet in the summer, after two weeks of heat and little rain, the lawn looks like someone disemboweled a dozen scarecrows.
At this point in the summer, I get mad at the grass. The sheer ingratitude. Have I not aerated you? Fed you? Do I not drag a hose all around and irrigate you? Have you turned into water snobs who disdain my offer as mere "faucet juice," and you require "cloud-sourced" moisture?
Spring revealed areas that had given up completely, small islands of dead grass that suggested the dog was emitting conical blasts of Roundup. Reseeding didn't do anything, so I went with the sure sign of a desperate fool: Plug it with sod.
At least it'll look good for a week.
When I dumped the sod on the lawn I tried to shame the rest of the grass: "Look at these guys, rolled up so the nurturing rays of the sun cannot fall on their faces, sitting squashed on a pallet like boneless pigs, and they're still greener and more lush than the rest of you."
I cut some custom pieces, put them down and invited my wife to admire the newly green lawn. She liked it, but suggested I dig out the old grass instead of laying the sod on the top. Why? I mean, it's going to die. This way, I can just roll it back up. But OK, hon.
The most lurid patch of grass, thriving despite all odds, is in a spot formerly occupied by an emerald ash. The tree was removed because it was bored. I don't mean "tired of the rest of us," although I'm sure after 21 years our conversation was starting to grate, but because an insect had infested it. The grass on this spot is a bright green. The blades are also quite wide.
"Did you plant crabgrass?" my wife asked. I was tempted to say, "Yes, that's exactly what I did. Went to the store, said, 'Give me a bag of crabgrass seed,' and they said, 'Sure, you want some crabgrass killer to go with that?' And I said, 'Good idea! You guys really are a one-stop shop.'"
But in the interest of staying married, I told her, "No, just lawn seed." She asked what kind. "The seed that comes in a bag that says 'lawn' on it," I said, then decided to improvise. "Kentucky fescue, I think," and she looked at me as if I'd made up the name of a country-western singer.
Then it rained. Did it help? No. I know these are small and petty problems, and my lawn is the last priority when it comes to world affairs, but if they decided to seed the clouds to force the rain, can I make one request?
Add some green dye?
