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The Other Mans Grass is Always Greener ( No I mean it ) Part 3

Updated on March 9, 2013



Conferring with Jim at the hardware store along with his pimple faced assistant, we all three agreed that I had put down too strong of a mixture of chemical. It was either that or I just didn’t have any grass to begin with. It was all weeds. The latter was probably true. They came up with a new plan. Out came the plastic and I again came home with my trunk full. Bags of seed a bale of straw and a rented rotor tiller. For the next five days I tilled dirt sowed seeds and spread straw. Hank my next door neighbor and Sullivan across the street even gave me a approving nod, or maybe it was just dust in their noses. Still I was determined to follow the plan laid out by Jim at the hardware store. I sat out sprinklers at night and proudly looked across my straw covered yard. Then it happened. I don’t feel as though it was my fault. Who am I to govern the laws of nature? It began to rain. Rain fell for four straight days. Then the last straw, or should I say the last of the straw disappeared on the fourth day during a storm of biblical proportions. The family that lived at the end of our clue DE sac never knew what hit them. The straw washed down the street plugging up the main storm drain. After the straw left my yard the top three inches of soil followed close behind. I was told by my insurance agent, that a young girl about four years old was sitting in front of the TV watching an episode of Sponge Bob Square Pants when the flood occurred. By the time it quit two inches of water and mud replaced the carpet. She was actually lifted up and washed into the kitchen. She expected Sponge Bob and his friends to follow. She was laughing when her mother scooped her up and ran for high ground. As I turned onto my street after work a fire engine and two police cars sat at the end of the street. A clearly distraught young woman holding a small child was pointing in my direction saying words I haven’t heard since college. I not sure who they were since both were covered in mud. Again my son met me at the car with hugs. “Dad you built me a mud bog like on TV”. He along with most of the boys in the area was knee deep in mud in my yard. “I think Mom is mad.” He said. This time it was my wife looking out the window shaking her head and muttering.


My insurance agent told me he would work out a deal with the company to pay for part of the repairs if I would promise to hire professionals to repair my yard. It took a little over three weeks to get things back to normal six loads of dirt were brought in. Real sod was laid end to end in my yard. I had no idea sod cost more than the best carpet. In fact carpet would have been cheaper. My wife said no. By the time everyone was done my lawn looked better than several of my neighbors. It totaled more than the deck I looked at but the insurance company paid for most of it. My premiums are sure to go up so I will pay for it all in the end. The biggest problem was that the relationship I had built up with my son had deteriorated. No longer could he ride his bike in the yard. A baseball game was a definite no. All that playing and sliding could ruin the grass. I decided my family was more important than the green grass of home. The kids again could ride bikes through it. Baseball games were played in it and the dog dug up flowers everywhere they were planted. With the right mixture of lawn food the grass stayed in place and looked good to me. It is not a golf course nor is it the Gobi desert. We have both sworn off flower and patio shows in favor of activities involving the family. The other mans grass is greener and will always be. The neighborhood got together and brought me a signed petition making me promise never to try to fix my lawn again. Among the mob was my neighbor from two streets over. He stood in the back of the mob shaking his head and muttering to himself.


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    • Hyphenbird profile image

      Brenda Barnes 

      7 years ago from America-Broken But Still Beautiful

      I always thought Astro Turf was tacky. However I am rethinking its value. Some, ahem, men need all the help they can get.


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