And so my yard said unto me, “Go, ye forsaken skunk, for ye shall not tame me. Wasteth not your breath, for I shall not be conquered, or kept at bay. I am the Indomitable Yard. The one who rages in your nightmares like a wild hurricane. The one who can withstand any assault. The one who rises up like the Phoenix to retake what is rightfully mine. And you? You are just a small, sniveling man with a pair of dull pruning shears and a rusty shovel. Lowly wretch! Oh, and by the way: there’s an ant crawling on your neck. You might want to swat that off before … ulp … yep, it bit you. Man, you are just a total mess.”
This is what my yard said unto me. It hurt. Both the ant bite, but also the general tone of its voice. Its confidence. It’s arrogance.
“Ye shall not tame me!” Oh, how I shall try.
I’ve been trying. So many years of trying. We all have. Yards are a constant battle. An ongoing struggle between weeds and vines and mountains of swelling leaves that threaten to avalanche on our houses.
For most of us, our yards are the last throwback to a bygone era when we had to battle with Mother Nature for our very survival. And sometimes, even today, our survival still depends upon it. Like when my wife calls out, “have you figured out why the vine keeps growing up through the bathroom floor!?!” only I’m actually sitting on the sofa watching soccer.
Some yards need only minor tending. Manicuring. The equivalent of going to the nail salon for a “re-apply.” (I’ve never actually been to a nail salon, but these are the things I’m told.) There are people who giddily mow their grass each weekend and say things like, “howdy neighbor” and “beautiful day, isn’t it?” They’re usually whistling, and their yard work is so minimal that they wear nice clothes to do it.
I hate these kinds of people!
They have never known hardship in their lives. They think their 20-minute lawn mow is a joy and cathartic and proof that mankind has triumphed over the elements. They think they know what it is to tame a wild yard.
They disgust me!
For they know not what it means to hop onto the back of the wild stallion and ride it as it bucks and brays, and ultimately throws you off the side of a cliff.
They don’t know the horrible feeling of looking down at a “To-do” list that reads: “Weed, rake, mow and make the yard look semi-presentable so people stop pointing and asking, ‘Is that the land that time forgot?’”
You know the list. You know the feeling. You know the dread as spring approaches and you run out of excuses for why you haven’t “tried” to bring the yard back under control: The holidays. The cold. The rain. The fact that there are really important soccer games this time of year, and a pantry full of tortilla chips because it’s a pandemic and you “stocked up!!!”
But now, there’s really no excuse. Because the weather is turning good, and that giant pile of leaves looks like it could shift at any moment.
The yard has sensed your weakness. Your absence. And it’s taking advantage. The sun and the rain feeds it. Encourages it. Drives it mad with greed.
And then you start hearing: “Honey, I can’t see the street anymore. I think the yard has cutoff all our escape routes again. It also swallowed one of the cars. Might be time, you know?”
Yes, I suppose it is!
But it won’t be easy. You always wait too long. You let it go too far. There is 3 feet of pollen on the porch. Just to get outside you need a snow shovel.
Your grass? Well, you don’t have grass anymore. It is just one un-ending field of clover with intermittent spikes of a tall weed that looks like a whisker growing out of a witch’s mole. (That’s not what you want to see in your front yard!)
You could mow it all down, but your lawnmower hasn’t been started in three months and the fuel has literally congealed in the tank. The carburetor hacks and wheezes smoke as you pull on the starter cord.
The clover isn’t even your biggest problem. Since summer, your yard has managed the distinction of being the first in history to accumulate every type of weed that has ever been documented, including two that scientists have yet to identify. The Guinness Book of World Records would come, but they can’t figure out how to get through the clover.
The bougainvillea is out of control, and it has sharp teeth. The ponderosa lemon is out of control, and it has sharp fangs. The cat’s claw vine is out of control, and it has cat’s claws and hisses. You’re out there for 5 minutes and you’ve lost a pint of blood and have scars on your face that make you look like a poor pirate-gardener.
But you keep fighting. And after much work – after much hardship and blood-loss – ye have brought some semblance of order and respectability to your yard. It isn’t much, but it’s something.
Only, you can still hear it snickering at you. It says, “Ye have not tamed me. I am the Indomitable Yard. The one who rages in your nightmares like a wild hurricane. You may have won this day, but I come back. I ALWAYS come back! Oh, and btw: your wife is yelling at you because you forgot the vine in the bathroom again. Ye small, sniveling man!”