The monsoon generally starts here in early June, and that’s what’s happened. The crunchy, dry grass of Springtime morphs very rapidly into a sea of lush green. Why, you could even walk on it. Wear hip waders.
A week ago, I took the Frankenstein mower (Craftsman body, Briggs & Stratton motor) to the shop for its annual makeover, which is to say get it running. It takes its winter siesta very seriously. That took only one day, and when I got home with it, I called Abel the Deadpan Yardman who said he couldn’t make it for another week, i.e. mañana, Sunday.
Oh, dear. The grass was already high. Now it’s higher. I took the photo this morning. This is not a problem for me, but it’s a problem for Abel who has to deal with it.
I did my own yard chores this morning, stuff I’ve ignored for the past few days. I brushed bat crap off the downstairs terraza shelves. I swept it away, carefully, with a facemask. Now there’s an actual use for a facemask. I scrubbed the birdbath and freshened the water. I cleaned the glass-top table and the web chairs on the yard terraza. I swept up a desiccated bird carcass my child bride had brought to my attention.
And now I’m writing this. An old coot’s toil never ends.
I hope Abel shows up mañana. He will because he’s very reliable, and he likes money.
While the wildly growing grass is a bother, another aspect of June and its accompanying rains is that the datura returns to life. Every fall I whack it way back because if I didn’t it would become another of my monster plants. When it returns in June, it’s smaller but still pretty, and it starts growing again.
By September, this will be three times larger or more.