ftp.wwiv.com/ftp.wwiv.com.zip/ftp.wwiv.com/pub/BBS/RUBYV40.ZIP/RUBY40-8

Text File | 1994-12-15 | 16KB | 253 lines

Copyright 1994(c)
         THE LAWN FROM HELL; OR SUMMERTIME GREENS BLUES
                        By David A. Bates

     I have the Lawn from Hell. This is a conclusion reached
after months of intensive research. There is quite simply no
other explanation for it. Over the course of a single mowing
season, I became intimately familiar with the Lawn from Hell.
From this intimacy developed a grudging respect for, and not a
small fear of, what has become one of the most time and energy
consuming projects I have ever embarked upon. Perhaps a brief
description is in order for the benefit of those Doubting
Thomases among you.
     The Lawn from Hell has more ruts than the Oregon Trail, life
forms unknown anywhere else on the planet, quite likely due to
divine intervention, and huge dead limbs which appear to grow
directly out of the ground. These limbs, if collected over the
course of a season, would provide enough lumber to construct a
fair-sized dwelling. That the trees in the Lawn from Hell aren't
completely stripped of leaves and branches is a wonder to me,
considering the size and number of limbs dropping from them.
These limbs, I am convinced, are designed by nature in such a way
that they fall to the ground in the hour immediately preceding
my mowing activity. The result of which is that I must spend at
least thirty minutes, often longer, picking them up lest they
destroy my lawn mower. If that weren't bad enough, the grass
itself has mutated into an alien organism that doubles in length
approximately every ten minutes. On calm nights, with the windows
open, one can actually hear these mutant blades grow. Common
woodland creatures, unaware of their fate, have wandered
innocently into this green purgatory only to be swallowed up and
consumed. I try not to think about this as I perform my required
trimming. The crunching sounds I hear beneath my mower are only
small twigs, I tell myself. Only twigs.
     Then there are the weeds. These are flora which have yet to
be scientifically classified. Their only common trait is an
uncanny resistance to trimming. While I have no evidence with
which to support my theory, it is my opinion that these weeds are
able to somehow detect the approach of a lawnmower and duck at
the last moment, only to pop up once again once the mower has
passed. My first summer as owner of the Lawn from Hell, I
attempted to implement a weed management program. I covered the
turf with virtually every weed control chemical known to modern
man. This only served to further strengthen their resolve. In
no other lawn in Middle America can one find Dandelions still
blooming in October.
     My neighbors, who are blessed with normal, ordinary grass,
possess lawn tractors. I watch them, green with envy, as they
cruise effortlessly over their mirror-smooth lawns, whistling as
they ride. One man went so far as to install a portable
television set in his tractor. It was one of those enclosed
models with air conditioning and power steering. This vehicle was
more luxurious than my automobile. My neighbor entered the rig
in early May and wasn't seen again until late October.
    I, on the other hand, happen to have a wife who has
established as her life's goal "seeing to it I get into shape,"
to use her words. I am therefore forced to subdue the Lawn from
Hell with a mere power mower. Three or four times each week, I
go to my shed, roll out my trusty five horsepower, self-
propelled, 21-inch mulching mower. I do this with considerable
trepidation because I know I have a full two to three hours of
torturous labor ahead of me.
     The Lawn from Hell is divided into separate and distinct
segments, each with a unique personality. I begin my journey in
the "grass that grows an inch an hour" segment. This is the
portion of the Lawn from Hell situated directly over the septic
tank. It was also at one time the location of a garden, thus
residue from numerous fertilizings remains in the soil. Suffice it
to say I have actually observed blades of grass magically
restored to their pre-mown length within minutes after I pass
over them. If I could but transfer this phenomenon to the heads of
balding men, I could retire tomorrow wealthier than my wildest
dreams.
     Once I've completely clogged the underside of my mower with
grass clippings, I move on to the "fight my way around the shrubs
and bushes" portion. Here is where the superior maneuverability of
a push mower shines through. Whatever alien force transformed my
grass into its present form did not stop when it reached the
shrubbery. These prickly demons grasp any object, living or
nonliving, which dare to venture too near their domain. At least
twice per week, I singlehandedly confront one of these snarling
green beasts when it attempts to snatch the mower from my grasp.
I proudly wear numerous scars on my body, graphic evidence of
past battles fought and won. I have yet to succumb to the
horrors of the brambles.
    Next comes the "millions of miles of mole hills" portion.
This is where the mower wheels crash through the surface of the
soil, leaving behind a circular-shaped earthen icon where the
blade scours all vegetation from the area. As if the ruts
weren't obstacle enough, the Lawn from Hell/Mole Hill Segment is
a veritable sponge. On more than a few occasions have I stepped
into one of these hidden tunnels and gone sprawling. That I
haven't broken any bones is no doubt a miracle. Of course, the
moles dwelling within these tunnels have taken on the same
personality as their adopted home. No controlling agent known to
modern man even begins to faze these critters. They simply gain
strength from whatever I throw their way, and move on to yet
another  part of the yard.
     The "millions of miles of mole hills" segment of the yard is
also the home of the Very Strange Fungus. The VSF, as it is
commonly called, is a yellowish tinted globule approximating a
flattened baseball in both size and texture. The VSF grows
within a four square-foot depression which, I believe, was once
the site of a large tree. This rock hard toadstool on steroids
is capable of withstanding a direct blow from a power mower, a
full-force kick from a human foot and fifteen minutes of
dedicated shovel work. It boasts a root system elaborate enough to
be the envy of the Army Corp of Engineers. I was successful
on only one occasion in removing a VSF from its place. The
following day I discovered three additional VSFs which had grown
in or near the same site. My guess is they were there purely to
avenge the untimely demise of their brother. That they thrive on
the same chemicals I fed to the moles has not escaped my
reckoning.
     The next part of the yard, the beginning of the second half,
is known as the "increasing angled slope, ankle-twisting"
segment. It is here that my mettle is most severely tested. I
have already endured more than an hour of muscle straining, back
wrenching labor at the hands of the Lawn from Hell by this time.
After a few moments to refuel my mower, it's back to the
conquest.
     This segment of the Lawn from Hell would no doubt challenge
the worthiest of Mountain Goats. It is only by pure miracle that
my legs are not of uneven lengths. One misstep and the
unfortunate stroller would roll unimpeded into the water and
beyond. This might not be so bad were it not for the presence of
one other creature common to the Lawn from Hell - the Canada
Goose.
     I always thought of Canada Geese as beautiful birds until I
moved to the lake and learned firsthand of their singular bad
habit. To put it as delicately as possible, geese have a very
short retention time between eating and elimination. There are
precious few square inches of the lower half of the Lawn from
Hell not covered for the majority of the year in goose droppings.
It is for this reason that falling and rolling toward the water's
edge while mowing is not a pleasant prospect.
     After spending months physically chasing these feathered
digestive systems out of my yard, beating two skillets together,
waving my arms in the air, and screaming obscenities at them, I
discovered the magic of bottle rockets. Yes, one match and my
troubles are gone!  All I need do is step out onto my deck with
an empty soda bottle, a lighter and a handful of bottle rockets.
I place a rocket into the open bottle, aim it in the general
direction of my target, the aforementioned gaggle of geese, flick
the lighter and touch the flame to the wick. A slight hiss, then
a flash of light and BOOOOOM!  Geese go flying and squawking in
every direction. My penultimate moment of glory came earlier
this very summer, when by a quirk of glorious fate, one of my
launches landed directly beneath the derriere of one of the male
geese. I never realized until that moment that it was possible
for a goose to fly straight up like a helicopter. It was a
beautiful sight to behold. Of course, the poor critter reacted
in typical goose fashion, making a fresh deposit to its already
sizeable account on the lawn, but he was now a believer in my
"pay as you play" philosophy.
     By the time I've reached the lower one-third of the Lawn
from Hell, it has actually begun to level off into a nearly
normal suburban lawn. One might think my troubles nearly over.
However, those who believe this have yet to reckon with the Great
Willow Tree.
     The Great Willow Tree consists of three identically sized
trunks. It occupies a place of dubious honor at the very edge of
the Lawn from Hell. Had this tree grown anywhere else on Earth, it
would have been like any other tree. Since it had the
misfortune of becoming a part of the Lawn from Hell, therefore
having as its only purpose in life adding to my lawn care misery,
it boasts a root system which at any moment can erupt from solid
ground and bring my mower to an immediate halt. Even worse, it
has no fewer that five hundred million branches which either
reach down from above and snag my shirt or fall onto the ground
directly in front of me, forcing me to bend over and pick them up
lest they crunch into sawdust under my mower. These limbs are
inbred with suicidal tendencies. Like Kamikaze pilots, they toss
down a last drink of lake water, snap free of their moorings and
dive directly into the path of my power mower. One huge limb
fell earlier this summer from the Great Willow Tree into the lake
and, rather than simply floating away as would be expected, it
remains to this day, bobbing up and down in the water, awaiting
the moment when I wade into waist-deep, ice cold water and drag
it ashore. The Lawn from Hell has the ability to cast its spell
even into the water.
     F)nally, after more than three hours of strenuous, sweaty
labor, the Lawn from Hell is momentarily subdued. It lies,
twitching and straining, under the hot sun, awaiting the moment I
return my mower to the shed to begin growing anew. I trudge up
the incline toward the comfort of my home, knowing that it is
only a matter of days, perhaps only hours, before I must repeat
the entire process.
     One of my lawn tractor-owning neighbors suggested, after
watching me one hot July afternoon locked in mortal combat with
the Lawn from Hell, why I didn't simply allow it to return to its
natural state and apply to the state for a permit to turn my
property into a natural habitat. It seemed like the perfect
solution at the time. I could allow the moles to have their way.
The geese would be free to fertilize all the acreage they wished.
The underground-dwelling limbs could pop out of the topsoil at
any point. The Very Strange Fungus would have its own protected
ecosystem. The Great Willow Tree would be able to landscape its
immediate surroundings at will. It sounded to me like a great
plan, until I became cognizant of the total implications.
     Turning the Lawn from Hell into a natural habitat would not
only prevent me from mowing, thus effectively neutralizing the
last line of defense in three counties against a complete
takeover by vegetation run amuck, it would also call into life
the most feared of all known organisms - the dreaded Form Filled
Out In Triplicate. Not since Tyrannosaurus Rex has such an all
consuming creature existed on Earth. The mere thought of
resurrecting this horror made my blood run cold. I toyed with
the notion of abandoning my property to the mercy of the elements
and fleeing with only the clothes on my back to the Mojave
Desert, or any place totally devoid of anything resembling grass.
   Then I collected my senses long enough to ask myself: "What's
the absolute worst that could happen were I to follow through
with this plan?" I mentally plotted it out and found the
ultimate result far worse than I imagined. By the simple
expedient of requesting a Form Filled Out In Triplicate, I
envisioned the following scenario:
     I would drive the already overburdened US Postal System into
chronic gridlock by first requesting then returning these forms
First Class, thereby forcing an increase in postal rates, thereby
fueling inflation, thereby driving the national economy into
recession, thereby dismantling the fragile Global marketplace,
thereby creating political and social chaos in the third world,
thereby sparking numerous bloody revolutions, thereby causing the
needless deaths of millions, thereby forever altering the course
of civilization, thereby ending the domination of man over the
planet, thereby leading to our premature extinction.
     The future of life as we know it was in my hands. Try as I
might, I could not bring myself to drop the curtain on modern
civilization by locking up my power mower, as tempting as the
thought might be. Instead, I gazed out of my window as the sun
slowly set on the Lawn from Hell, already three inches taller
than it was only an hour earlier. I knew it would be only a
matter of days before I would steel myself to do battle against
the green monster once again. It was the price I must pay in
order to save mankind from terminal vegetation.
     If you ever come up to visit me, you'll need to go through a
complete disinfection/detoxification regimen before you're allowed
to leave the premises.  This is a very recent development.  It was
discovered that whatever unknown force exists in the Lawn from Hell
can be transferred to other places by people simply walking across
it.  The mutation which so radically altered my grass has the same
effect on clothes hangers and paper clips. They suddenly begin to
multiply without warning and intertwine until they've grown into
a wiry globule the size of Pike's Peak.  Three office buildings in
Goshen, Indiana had to be abandoned when they were overtaken by a
paper clip avalanche.  What's worse, my wife innocently strolled
into a dry cleaners in Battle Creek, Michigan last August after
taking a walk across the yard.  It took rescue units from six
counties three days to cut their way with acetylene torches
through the resulting hanger maze to rescue the shocked and
disbelieving cleaner staff.
                               end