One of my favorite things about Arizona is October. The heat finally subsides, and while everyone else is bundling up and bracing themselves for colder weather, we're wondering whether or not it's cool enough to don a long sleeved shirt. (It's not... maybe in December.)
And then there's winter grass. There's something magical about the bright green sprouts of rye. People start planting winter lawns in October, and pretty soon the smell of manure fills the air. That smell means there will be green again... soft, lush, and green like we've forgotten existed in this dry, brown climate.
Enter Annie, and her green thumb.
Three years ago, John and I, feeling intrepid, decided to tackle a winter lawn. "It's easy" everyone said. "Just shave the lawn really short, spread your seed, manure, and then water it a lot." It sounded easy enough. We did what we were told, and a week later had a polka dotted, green and brown lawn.
The next year, we tried again. The same thing happened. Huh.
By the time October 13th had rolled around this year, I could smell the manure, and was determined to grow pretty, green grass. "So what if John's not here", I tell myself. "I'm capable. I know how to plant. Just because I can't keep cilantro alive doesn't mean I'm agriculturally incompetent." Let's not forget that I'm the Granddaughter of a farmer, and my mother could make a gardenia grow in death valley. ( As I have killed plant after plant in our yard, I've imagined I've heard Grandpa, who passed away 5 years ago, clucking his tongue and laughing that quiet laugh of his at my attempts to turn Chandler into California.)
So I consulted with our friend Joe. He gave me a few pointers, and I was off to Lowe's. With Porter on my hip, and two other little monkey's following me around the nursery, I purchased enough seed for the lawn, and 15 bags of manure. We... oh, I mean I packed everything into the back of the Pathfinder, and drove home.
Over the course of the next several days, I mowed, raked, and mowed again. Then came the seed. I was careful to cover the ground well. Then the manure. My neighbor came over and asked me why I was making more work for myself. Since he brought a bag full of fresh Okra, I tried to laugh it off good naturedly. There WOULD be grass.
By the time I was done, and the sprinklers were running, I could understand the pride a farmer takes in their land. My small plot of earth had become mine in a different way. I wondered if maybe I too could enjoy gardening more. We would see.
Fast forward a week. Everyone else's lawn's are looking beautiful. Some lawn's have even gotten their first mowing, their uniform, even wheel marks highlighting the lushness of it all. I want to go and sit on them, to take pictures of my kids on their spring- like greenness.
And then there's my lawn. It has lovely polka dots again. While I did manage to grow about 50 mushrooms, the occurrence of green is accidental and weird looking. I guess my neighbor was right, because now I'm more determined than ever to have a pretty green lawn to sit on. I fully intend to re-seed, and re- manure until it looks like a golf course. There will be grass.
Once again, I hear my grandpa... "well good night...".
And then there's winter grass. There's something magical about the bright green sprouts of rye. People start planting winter lawns in October, and pretty soon the smell of manure fills the air. That smell means there will be green again... soft, lush, and green like we've forgotten existed in this dry, brown climate.
Enter Annie, and her green thumb.
Three years ago, John and I, feeling intrepid, decided to tackle a winter lawn. "It's easy" everyone said. "Just shave the lawn really short, spread your seed, manure, and then water it a lot." It sounded easy enough. We did what we were told, and a week later had a polka dotted, green and brown lawn.
The next year, we tried again. The same thing happened. Huh.
By the time October 13th had rolled around this year, I could smell the manure, and was determined to grow pretty, green grass. "So what if John's not here", I tell myself. "I'm capable. I know how to plant. Just because I can't keep cilantro alive doesn't mean I'm agriculturally incompetent." Let's not forget that I'm the Granddaughter of a farmer, and my mother could make a gardenia grow in death valley. ( As I have killed plant after plant in our yard, I've imagined I've heard Grandpa, who passed away 5 years ago, clucking his tongue and laughing that quiet laugh of his at my attempts to turn Chandler into California.)
So I consulted with our friend Joe. He gave me a few pointers, and I was off to Lowe's. With Porter on my hip, and two other little monkey's following me around the nursery, I purchased enough seed for the lawn, and 15 bags of manure. We... oh, I mean I packed everything into the back of the Pathfinder, and drove home.
Over the course of the next several days, I mowed, raked, and mowed again. Then came the seed. I was careful to cover the ground well. Then the manure. My neighbor came over and asked me why I was making more work for myself. Since he brought a bag full of fresh Okra, I tried to laugh it off good naturedly. There WOULD be grass.
By the time I was done, and the sprinklers were running, I could understand the pride a farmer takes in their land. My small plot of earth had become mine in a different way. I wondered if maybe I too could enjoy gardening more. We would see.
Fast forward a week. Everyone else's lawn's are looking beautiful. Some lawn's have even gotten their first mowing, their uniform, even wheel marks highlighting the lushness of it all. I want to go and sit on them, to take pictures of my kids on their spring- like greenness.
And then there's my lawn. It has lovely polka dots again. While I did manage to grow about 50 mushrooms, the occurrence of green is accidental and weird looking. I guess my neighbor was right, because now I'm more determined than ever to have a pretty green lawn to sit on. I fully intend to re-seed, and re- manure until it looks like a golf course. There will be grass.
Once again, I hear my grandpa... "well good night...".
(One of the polka dots.)
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