Love letter to a lawn

The other day I woke up early, put on some ratty clothes, and tromped around the back yard, where I raked leaves into a neat little pile and then shoved them into large black plastic trash bags and carried them to the curb. I remember before I ever bought a house, I’d ride through the Memphis streets and sneer at the houses with big bags of yard waste resting on their curbs. I always assumed these uppity homeowners were sending their yard waste to landfills. Where I came from, you either turned yard waste into mulch or you burned it or both; you didn’t ask the city to do anything with it. There was no city to ask. Then I got a house and it came with a decently sized yard and I realized that if I was going to get rid of the fifty billion metric tons of leaves that fell into my yard in the fall, I was going to need some help (since you can’t and shouldn’t just go lighting piles of leaves on fire, despite how awesome it smells and how warm it is, and how much it contributes to your desire for your neighbors to fear you entirely). So, yep. Bags of leaves on the curb, destined for organic waste heaven, until I can get my shit together enough to even contemplate a compost pile.

And then I sat on the back porch. The concrete was cool to the touch, even after baking for hours in the afternoon sun. We are in that hesitant breath before full-on spring: the fast-blinking, eye-rolling moment before the sneeze of seasonal change, where we will wake up one day and the trees will have tiny buds and the jagged daffodils will have pushed their way through the earth to say hello to the sun.

I sat on the porch and I watched. Red wasps and bumblebees were inspecting the flowering weeds. It took me a minute to stop freaking out about them flying around me, because I am insane. I tried to be all zen about it and not go fetch the Raid. My assumption is — always — that winged stinger-equipped beasts ALWAYS want to sting me, even if it means certain death for them. But I decided to just sit still, even when a hornet buzzed past my head. I cussed at it and then felt silly, like some paranoid Gulliver who thinks he’s under attack by a sprawling tiny army, but actually isn’t.

And as I sat there, still, and began to notice all the parts of the yard that were moving, it occurred to me that I had neighbors I’d never stopped to consider. Like the little red-breasted bird (robin?) who kept showing up in branches, on the roof, in the grass. He alighted and hopped close to me as I was raking and even when I gestured broadly, he didn’t flinch. The little grey squirrel that leapt from roof to fence and then disappeared into the branches. The tiny tiny tiny little chipmunk I caught hiding in the bushes, that outran my camera. I am just gobsmacked at the thought that these animals have been there for months, possibly years, and here I am, moving in and possibly rocking their little ecosystem with the slight changes I’ve made to the homestead.

I put fresh water in the bird bath and came inside to Google ways of cleaning a bird bath (dilute some bleach, check), since even fresh water and a blast from the hose couldn’t remedy the mildewy grossness. That got me to thinking about bird feeders. And that got me to driving to Lowe’s to finally spend a gift card I’d been saving for a special Lowe’s occasion. I eyed a squirrel-proof feeder and some songbird feed, and then caved and bought some pansies and snapdragons and hyacinths and even a sweet little pink daffodil bulb too. And a couple of nice new pots since a couple of mine had busted over the winter. I don’t know how it happened. It just did. And I am not ashamed to go into/remain in debt for the benefit of flowers and birds. I feel confident that Bank of America will understand this reasoning, when and if I ever need to spill it to them.

Tuesday, I watched from the bathroom window as the birdfeeder — which seemingly had been empty all afternoon — shifted under the weight of four birds. Two more were perched on the roof of the shed nearby, waiting their turn. The birds would leave the feeder and then perch on the bird bath, just three feet away. And then fly away. To where? And then back.

Tonight I got home from work and went directly to the shed to pot the new plants. It took some time to pierce the new resin pots with a screwdriver a few times, but soon enough I was shoveling potting soil into them and trying to position the bulbs and roots in a way that looked pretty and also wouldn’t result in instant death. I checked my phone for the weather forecast and got paranoid — for basically no reason — that if I left the newly potted plants outside the shed overnight, they’d die. I might have attachment issues. So tonight, the plants will be in the shed. Soon enough I’ll put them outside and trust them to weather the elements. Just … not yet.