The Dreaded Summer Chore

Is there anything wrong with cultivating a suburban clover farm? One that grows in the middle of a dog track? I don't think so. Uli doesn't think so either, she rather enjoys a flower garden in the center of her Kentucky Derby style homespun track. But, I am sure, a few of my neighbors would beg to differ and tell me there is. I just loath the idea of having to mow the backyard--today.

I actually enjoy mowing the grass, as crazy as that might sound. However, somewhere between Sunday and yesterday Saint Louis made a mad dash into summer--heat, humidity, steam rising off the cement sidewalks, air you can cut with a knife. Basically hell on earth. Knowing the only real relief would be submerged in a barrel of water or inside where cool air is pumped while the meter spins like an out-of-control top. So while I sit, no lay in my bed, peering out the window at my backyard heavily sprinkled with papilionaceous; those sweet little white flowers...probably all three hundred species of the trifolium family consuming my yard I am trying to sike myself out of the task.

I just cannot motivate myself to take to the outside air where the temperature at 7am is already 81* with a looming heat index of 105. Who in there right mind would willing take to outside chores on a day like this?

Then I glance to the right and notice the dreaded renter's yard I will not let myself fall into his pit of laziness. What I love about "renter" is that when he moved in he introduced himself to King Ralph through a half opened screened kitchen window; the first thing he said to ole' King was he once had a neighbor he had to get on mow the grass. Now it's a running joke between us and the neighbor who butts up to other side of the house--when will he mow his grass and should King Ralph remind him of that moving conversation? The thought crossed our minds to go in half-n-half on a goat, a little grazer to keep "renters" yard manicured. Then we decided we would have nothing to laugh about together, maybe it is more like roll our eyes.

Oh well, I braved the heat and mowed the backyard. Tomorrow I will feed my suburban clover farm a little snack of weed-be-gone. (Sorry Uli you will have to enjoy a more Irish view of a green meadow) Then I will perform a voo-doo ritual on the "renter".

Note to self: purchase voo-doo doll when in New Orleans.

Sometimes I wish I lived in a world of astro turf.