On Concrete Yards

That’s what I’d like to see: a yard made of concrete. No mowing.

I let my back yard get way out of hand, and today paid the price while attempting to mow it following five straight days of rain. The mower kept choking and dying, and the thrower on the side kept jamming up. I’d lift the plastic cover and see this thick, wet mass of grass slowly pushing its way out. It was like a fat man squeezing out a turd following a weekend binge at a Wisconsin cheese festival.

Crickets and other unnameable insects swarmed away as their cover was blown. A spider the size of my thumb scuttled down the side of the neighbor’s garage, then came right for me. I think he was pissed at me for chasing away his food. I stomped on him. Three times, just for good measure. Meanwhile, booby traps of “dog yuckies” (as Tim would call them) lurked unseen in the foliage. My shoe found at least one, but the thick clumps of grass stuck in the treads of my boots and adhered to my soles kept the worst of it at bay.

Bring on the cement truck. Then I won’t have to worry about the asshole across the street catching my father-in-law at the gas station and telling him I need to mow my lawn more often (and if it bothers him that much, he’s welcome to come on over and do it his goddamn self). I won’t have to worry about the disparity in heights because my retired neighbors mow theirs twice a week.

“But Mike, what about a yard for your kids to play in?” people ask.

I say big deal. I’ll paint them a four-square court and install a tetherball pole. They can play dodgeball, and I may even tolerate basketball. They want to play football, I’ll put in some Astroturf. Tim will also have plenty of room for the wicked trike we bought him.

“But Mike, what about the environment?”

I have three words for that one: bite my ass.