I have a love/hate relationship with grass. The verdant spikes are such a welcome sight in the spring, after a long, gray, white, brown winter.
And then, almost overnight it becomes The Plague of Mythic Proportions. As we sleep, the fertilizer fairy tiptoes over field and plain and pours magical growing potion over every blade. I know this to be a fact because ordinary grass just doesn't grow that fast.
I crank up the mower and after a good 1 1/2-2 hours the main portion of the lawn is done. We used to have highly trained professional grazers who systematically rotated over most of the lawn, laying down their own brand of, ahem, fertilizer as they grazed (we had goats.)
But alas, or rather, hurray!, they are now all gone on to another farmer's field where they can frolic, fertilize, and feed to their heart's content (as well as test every boundary in sight!) My Dear Professor has always claimed that life began when the dog died. In our case, it was a little more complicated than that, with no animals being harmed in the process. Misty the freecycle wonder dog is still here, along with a few ducks and geese, and The Great Bundini, the rabbit hypnotist extraordinaire.
Where was I? Oh yes, the lawn. I actually enjoy that almost 2 hours on the lawn tractor (surely you didn't think I did it with a hand powered reel mower.) I love the scent of vanillin in the new mown grass, and the feeling of accomplishment once it is done.
What I don't understand is that I would much rather spend the 2 hours outside, listening to the hum of the mower's Briggs and Stratton engine than stand inside and wash the dirty dishes in my kitchen sink, which takes much less time.
Perhaps I should consult the Great Bundini?