SIXTEEN

I'm halfway done with NaBloPoMo this year! Yeah! Quiet here today, just hearing the wind chimes out in the birch tree.

Sundays were different when I was a kid. We went to Sunday school at 10 am, then church at 11 and then home for lunch. That usually involved grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup, or at least that's what I remember. Then it was change into junky clothes and go work on the lawn. It always needed something, like a miniature Golden Gate Bridge where the painting never stops. Yard work is year-round in Florida, and my mother was a fanatic about the yard. I hated it, the sweat, the blisters, the bugs that bit and itched, the knowledge that the same things would have to be done over. And over. Mom looked into putting down Zoysia grass, it supposedly never needs cutting once established, but also it seems it was intolerant of any use, walking, sitting, anything, so we never changed from the usual Bermuda grass. That type has long broad blades, somewhat serrated on the edges. One of our cats ate some and a single blade became stuck in his throat. He sneezed continuously for hours, until we took him to the vet, who had to sedate him to extract the single blade of grass he had sneezed up into his nasal passage. We had a humongous bill, and the cat never went outside again. Bermuda grass is a runner grass, putting out a runner that roots and grows, and so on. thus it tries to grow across cement or stone paths or flower borders, and it must be edged each time it is mowed. I thought of it as Zombie grass, blindly grasping for more! more! to eat up. here we have a weed lawn, and cut or uncut it looks like hell. An that suits me just fine, I did my time on the Lawn Torture Brigade, it's the weeds' turn now to flourish so my final karmic score, vis a vis greenery will be net zero. That's a good aim, yes?

Bumper Sticker for today: " My dog can lick your honor student."