It’s a sordid tale. Before you judge me, however, hear me out, and, please, don’t look at my hands.
It began one bright, clear morning in late summer. A gentle rain had fallen the previous night. A perfect time, I thought, to fertilize the lawn. I opened the garage, reached for my spreader and dumped the fertilizer in it. Before making the first pass, I froze. The spreader’s calibrations taunted me. Panic set in. Sweat trickled down my brow. I couldn’t remember the setting.
I spied the empty fertilizer bag lying on the garage floor. I grabbed it and scanned the long list of spreader models and settings. My spreader wasn’t listed, but, emblazoned in red was a toll-free turf-emergency number.
“Turf hot line. How may I help you?” was the pleasant greeting of the male turfamedic. I explained my dilemma. Instead of giving me the correct setting, however, he let out a long sigh.
“Which step are you applying at this time?” he asked.
“Oh, uh. . . . the one that kills dandelions,” I answered.
“I see,” he said, “Dandelion control refers to Step 2. However, this is not the appropriate time to apply Step 2. May I ask what issue you are seeking to address?”
Huh?
“Do you have any Vixen Blight or Mountain Dew Fondue in your lawn?” he continued.
At least that’s what it sounded like to me. Embarrassed at my turf ignorance, I lied.
“I’m pretty sure I don’t have those diseases. I mean my lawn doesn’t,” I began, “I just need to know what setting I should use. I have quack grass–that thick, bright green grass that looks like new grass.”
The turfamedic sighed again.
“I’m quite familiar with quack grass,” he said, “But Step 2 does not address quack grass. If you’ll hold, I will consult the manual.”
Over the phone line I heard him sigh and huff as he flipped page after page in his industry’s bible. Talking to himself, he rattled off a litany of lawn ailments.
“I’m sorry, nothing here addresses quack grass. Have you been following your holiday schedule?” he said.
I was caught.
“You do know your holiday schedule, don’t you?” he pressed.
I couldn’t speak.
“Let’s go through it together, shall we?” suggested the turfamedic, “Step 1, Easter. Step 2, Memorial Day. Step 3, 4th of July. Step 4, Labor Day. Now, when did you apply Step 1, our pre-emergence application?”
“Well, I, um . . .,” I stammered.
“Perhaps you pre-emerged . . . early?” he suggested.
The turfamedic paused, waiting for my response. When I offered none, he continued.
“If you pre-emerged early, Step 1 wore off before it had time to address your quack-grass problem,” he said. “Do you remember what you were doing at Easter?”
My body bristled with guilt. Yes, I remembered what I was doing at Easter. I was lolling on a beach in Ft. Myers, Fla., slinging back Mud Slides at a place called, Top O’ The Mast, singing “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” at the top of my lungs with three other AWOL wives and mothers. While I was baking in the Florida sun, my neglected, defenseless turf was caught in a quack-grass death grip.
“Actually, I don’t remember pre-emerging,” I said. “I think I just started with Step 2.”
“I see,” seethed the turfamedic, “And when was that?”
“Around, um, Memorial Day. Yeah, definitely around Memorial Day,” I said.
He wasn’t buying it, but his turfamedic manners kept him from berating me.
“And the 4th of July?” he asked.
“Um, oh, that’s when I applied Step 3,” I chirped.
Silence.
“Almost,” I said.
“Almost?” he pressed.
Again silence.
“Let’s do this,” the turfamedic volunteered. “If you think you didn’t apply Step 3 on the 4th of July, you probably could do that now, and Step 3–our formula with insect control–could address your quack grass.”
My heart leapt with joy. Finally, a way to redeem myself.
“However . . .,” he said, gravely, “I live in Ohio. Predictions indicate a weekend in the ’90s. Where do you live?”
“The Chicago suburbs. It’s supposed to be hot here too,” I said. Could it be the turfamedic and I were finally bonding, sharing, communicating?
“Hmmm, that’s a problem. Applying Step 3 at high temperatures is not advised. I wouldn’t risk it,” he said.
“Well, how about applying Step 2 again? Would it really make that much of a difference?” I asked.
The turfamedic sighed. Our bond broke.
“Yes, it would,” he said.
“Why is that?” I asked.
“Because, in that heat, any application will burn your lawn. B-U-R-N it,” he snarled.
I got the point. “Shall I wait a couple weeks, then apply Step 3?” I asked.
The turfamedic was losing his patience.
“Let’s keep our eye on the weather for the next few weeks, shall we?” he said, “If the weather improves, apply Step 3. If not, you’ll have to skip Step 3 altogether. Then, on Labor Day, you may apply Step 4. That will put you back on track for next year. Understand?”
Perfectly.
The turfamedic was spent. He almost hung up without giving me my spreader setting. After he did, I had to ask one last question.
“So, what about my quack grass?” I asked.
“You can pull it out . . . by hand,” he said. The suggestion seemed to alleviate his frustration with me.
Which brings me to my hands. Grass-stained, dirt-embedded, cracked and sore, they are a testimony to my failure at lawn maintenance.
– – –
“Hi, Mrs. V. Need some help?” Looking up from my weeding one day, I saw Sarah, my 12-year-old neighbor.
For an hour we crouched together, pulling up quack grass. Sarah chatted the whole time about school, her summer and her love of contemporary art.
Weeding is therapeutic and interactive, I thought after she left. In fact, if Sarah and I could bond weeding, think what could happen if the neighborhood, the community, the country, weeded together. I could start a national program. I’ll call it P.U.L.L.–Perpetuating Understanding, Liberating Lawns.
My lofty visions of community togetherness vanished as I passed the mirror. Sweaty strands of hair stuck to my forehead, dirt streaked across my cheeks, neck and arms. And my hands . . . .
I grabbed the phone book and dialed.
“Hello? ChemLawn?”
