Day 163: One of these things is not like the others, much to my dismay, and it heralds the approach of lawn-mowing season, something I tend to forget about over the winter months. It always takes me by surprise. Some morning, I'll look out the window and the grass (that coarse, sharp-bladed species which as kids, we stretched between our thumbs to make a whistle) will have sprung up to half the height of the bird-feeder poles. I don't have "lawn." I have a few blades of thin green stuff sticking up through moss, hawkweed, and assorted other unpleasantness. The sharp stuff grows in clumps where the poor soil contains any small amount of organic matter. It is astonishingly resistant to treatment, even (gods forbid!) Round-up. Naturalist that I am, when lawn-mowing season begins, there are two alternatives which spring to mind: a flame-thrower, or perhaps two or three acre-inches of green asphalt. What idiot decided houses should be surrounded by lawn?
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