I Fought The Lawn, And The Lawn Won

(From the Janesville Messenger, 5-17-09)


A few years ago, I was given a book called "How To Mow The Lawn." The cover features a 1950’s-era photo of a trim, shirtless typical dad, pushing his motorized grass cutter over his perfect suburban lawn.

This is one of the things that we as men strive for – the perfect front lawn. We desire a weed-free, well-manicured carpet of green that shows neighbors and passersby that a real man lives there, a man who is cultured and classy, yet not afraid to get dirt on his hands. Or who can pay someone else to get dirt on their hands.

To many, a perfect front lawn is as much a status symbol as an Audi convertible. But when the car is parked in the garage, who’s going to see it? Your grass is front and center all the time, thumbing its nose at the dandelion-riddled lower class.

In my case, if a man is indeed judged by his lawn, then my level of respect ranks somewhere between Michael Vick and Rod Blagojevich. In a world where beautifully manicured lawns are spectacular welcome mats, my front lawn is the ratty bath mat at a cheap motel.

The inability to whip my lawn into shape has frustrated me for the 17 years I have lived at my current address. Oh, it’s not that I haven’t tried. I’ve spread so many granules and chemicals on my lawn over the years, I’m surprised I don’t have seven-legged rabbits hopping around my yard. But the more I try to fight, the stronger my weedy opponents seem to become. I even tried a lawn service one year, but they were as successful with my stubborn lawn as the obedience school was with Marley in “Marley & Me.”

My longest, most unsuccessful battle has been with ground ivy, a.k.a. Creeping Charlie. This stuff is tenacious. Like Arnold Schwarzenegger in “The Terminator,” it just won’t die.

At one point, I thought I had found the solution to Charlie’s sinewy hold on my lawn. I was directed to a product that was described to me as the only weed killer on the market that would really knock Charlie out. It was strong and unpleasant stuff. To apply it to my lawn with a sprayer jar and hose, I outfitted myself with eye protection, a mask, a hat and overalls that immediately went into the washer post-application. I am thankful I do not live on a busy street, because I’m sure photos of me in my Hazmat suit would have shown up on the Internet.

This particular weed killer worked and worked well. I did a victory dance when the Creeping Charlie browned and withered. It was a banner spring for the front lawn at Lyke Manor.

However, after a time it became apparent that I couldn’t stop Charlie; I could only hope to contain him. He reared his ugly head again and again, and over time, subsequent applications of the nasty solution seemed to have less and less effect.

My wife owns a book that lists ways to simplify your life. One idea it recommends is to quit worrying about your lawn. It specifically stated that there are benefits to letting the ground ivy thrive. For example, in a dry summer, Creeping Charlie is heartier than grass and stays green when the rest of your lawn goes brown. That short chapter was the final prompting I needed to raise the white flag and sign the surrender documents.

Not that I needed much prompting, however. With each passing year, I felt less and less comfortable contributing such powerful chemicals to the groundwater. I kept weighing the benefits versus the potential damage and didn’t like the way the scales were balancing.

So this year, I completely turned over a new leaf. No fertilizer, no weed killer. When some non-Charlie weeds showed up that were just too big and ugly to bear, I got on my hands and knees and dug them out. And because I didn’t fertilize, my grass is not overly thick, which means my nice, quiet, non-motorized push reel mower does a fine job on the grass, if you don’t mind pushing it over the same spot more than once.

Because I wish not to be judgmental – and because I have friends that own hardware stores - I don’t want to discourage you from purchasing whatever lawn care additives you wish to make your grass look the way you want; to each his own.
But if you’re tired of fighting the ground war, you’re not alone.

The Write Stuff

(From the Janesville Messenger, 5-3-09)


Two of my nephews are currently majoring in journalism in college. As a wannabe writer, I’m thrilled at the prospect of having real, college-educated writers in the family.
I was briefly a college journalism major myself, but my university years were not exactly devoted to studying or self-improvement. I can truly say that about the only thing I accomplished during that period of great immaturity was somehow stumbling onto a wonderful human being who has now been married to me for 23 years. They are busy etching her likeness in stained glass as we speak; her application for sainthood is approved.
One of my great regrets was that I didn’t spend those years developing my skills as a writer. I have great admiration for those who can turn a phrase, whether it’s the whimsical musings of Garrison Keillor or the gritty crime fiction of Elmore Leonard. I’m amazed by writers that can keep your attention page after page and be effortlessly prolific.
I can appreciate their work because writing is hard. Even trying to punch out 700 words twice a month for the Messenger isn’t an easy proposition. Many are the times I have stared at a blank screen like an empty chair, struggling for inspiration or an idea – any idea – as deadline approached.
Other times, however, it seems like I am constantly scribbling down thoughts that I could use for a later column or some other project. Nothing ebbs and flows quite like the creative juices.
I don’t read nearly enough as I would like to (or should), so when I do, I try to make sure it’s worth my while. One writer who always qualifies is P.J. O’Rourke. A former National Lampoon writer who later wrote about politics for Rolling Stone, he has authored several political books that feature his incredible intelligence and biting wit.
What Jon Stewart is to Comedy Central, P.J. is to conservative commentary. Unlike the Coulters, Limbaughs and Ingrahams of the world, whose approach I find distasteful and whose motives I question, P.J. is smart, factual and funny – very funny. It says something that even when I disagree with his viewpoints, I still appreciate that he is presenting them factually and intelligently, with perfectly inserted bits of humor. He is the type of political writer I love – he’s not blindly allegiant to his party’s platform nor does he write in that smug, I’m-much-smarter-than-you style, even though he is.
But no one inspires me to become a better writer like Wisconsin author Michael Perry.
Mike is an awe-inspiring wordsmith who has produced three autobiographical books about his life in northern Wisconsin – Population: 485, Truck and the newly released Coop. After reading his books, you feel like you know the man inside and out; he has laid his life bare for you. He is a regular guy who fixes his truck, fumbles with women, kills plants, hunts, and sets his hair on fire. Yet he also appreciates modern dance and went to nursing school. And every word is worth reading.
I had the opportunity to interview Mike once when I was sitting in for Stan Milam on WCLO Radio. It was probably the most natural conversation I’ve had on that show. The guy is easy to talk to, humble and engaging. Just when I thought I couldn’t be more impressed, he sent a “thank you” post card to me care of the station, telling me that he enjoyed the interview. The books didn’t lie. To borrow from Dennis Green, he was what I thought he was.
And even though Mike is successful, you get the feeling he’s not doing it to become rich or famous. He’s just doing it because he loves to write. And those are the kind of authors that I want to read.
It’s the dream of many of us to write “The Great American Novel” or something encased in hardcover and sitting on a bestseller list. I took my stab at it several years ago, when I published a book of short stories called Five Trips to the Edge. Although I sold enough to cover my costs, I now look back at it with embarrassment, not only because of its dark, creepy tone, but also by thinking how much better it could or should be. Several times I have resolved to rewrite large chunks of it and try again, but I can’t muster the enthusiasm to make it a priority.
For now, my main writing project is a play that, God willing, will be presented at the Janesville Performing Arts Center in October. Since time is running short to get a final draft complete, whether it actually happens or not remains to be seen. But after a solid month of inactivity and doubt, ideas are starting to surface again. Whether those ideas are any good is something I hope you will eventually have the opportunity to judge.