The final insult

Remember that problem with the grass in the front lawn that I had this past spring? Remember how I sowed grass seed and sprinkled water and fertilizer and watched and fretted until baby blades of grass poked up out of the ground?

Well, then we had drought and the baby grass fried up real cripsy-like.

And...and...then the grubs invaded the remaining healthy grass.

And now the skunks have started plowing up the dirt to get the grubs. That’s the final insult.

I had this lecture playing in my head today. It was with Mother Nature. She said to me, “What do I need to do to get you to stop growing grass? A plague of locusts? What? I’ll try that next if that’s what it takes. Grow something useful!”

I’d take a picture of the horror out there, but it is Just.Too.Embarrassing. I feel as though I should hammer in a sign out front telling my neighbors that I’m sorry. It will be better next year. I promise. Not that I’m the only person in this situation, but this is my plot of earth and it’s an assault on the eyes.

And it will be better next year. I am SO DONE with grass. I can’t tell you how done I am.

Next spring there will be load of dirt and mulch delivered. I will sculpt a pretty rock garden area with berry producing plants and herbs and other edible pretties. With thick and luxurious mulch. The plants won’t be water greedy. They won’t fry in the sand. It’ll have nice curb appeal. And my neighbors won’t hate me. Maybe they’ll be inspired to try it, too.

When I think of the wasted time, effort, and water spent on trying to grow grass, it makes me ill. It wants to be constantly fed and pampered and manicured. Plus the added insults of grubs and skunks rooting around in the dirt. It’s ridiculously resource and labor intensive to maintain something that just sits there demanding more, more, more—without giving one thing back in return. I’m done. That’s it.