The suburban America obsession with lawn care mystifies me. I simply do not see the point in it. In some sense, I would probably prefer to live where grass can grow wild. In other ways, I am too used to my modern comforts to be okay with that. It’s not that we didn’t live outside of town when I was growing up, but nowadays almost everything is right nearby so I’m able to get anything I need, and if I can’t, there’s the internet, so I’m spoiled.

The point of that is… I really don’t know what to think of yardwork. It certainly isn’t fun for someone with a tendency to get sick in the heat and carpal tunnel.

Still, Grandpa needed help with his yard, and since we are here, we are rather easy targets.

So… um… Grandpa’s yard looks a bit like it was mowed by a drunk person. Not, of course, that I was drinking while doing lawn care, other than coffee before and after, that is, but I can’t drive a mower in a straight line.

Mom even went back and fixed stuff I did because I somehow missed a row completely. And by the downspout, supposedly, though I swear I tried to do that.

I think it just goes to show that you would be much better off not asking me to take care of your lawn.