Jun 19, 2017
When I first moved into the cozy little house I rent, my yard, especially the backyard, was a bit of a disaster. A double-lot and long-neglected by previous tenants, what green there was was mostly weeds, and there were large, barren spots flooded with mud that bore a striking resemblance to the mud flats of Chugach Sound. (Just think "reeeally muddy.")
Oh, but I had my plans. I didn't see the yard for its weaknesses and bare spots, but for its potential. I told myself, I would rehabilitate it. I had an inkling that I should like to create a yard so lovely, the Lord himself would like to take a stroll in it in the evening, just like he did in the Garden of Eden. And we would walk and talk together.
So in that first late summer, I attacked the soil and pulled up weeds and cultivated and tilled. In the flowerbeds, I planted crocus bulbs four inches deep with their tender heart-tips pointing skyward. I planted hyacinth, gladiolas, creeping flox. My parents donated some hostas from their yard and because hostas are hardy, I planted those in the worst soil around the edges of the back yard. My efforts were filled with the deep satisfaction that comes with dirt and sweat and the promise of growing things.
And they were met with some success.
It was the main feature, the grass itself, which resisted my gardening genius. On multiple occasions, and admittedly with no clue what I was doing, I attempted to seed the lawn with patch seed, the kind meant for little trouble spots, not half a yard. And which, after a big rain, resulted in what can only be described as grass hair-plugs – little, collected tufts of grass where the seed had pooled in the rainstorm, a miniature staccato forest dotting the baldness.