I love dead grass

Fall is one of my favorite times of year. And not because of football (although that is fun to watch). And not because of the brilliantly colored leaves (although they are beautiful). I love fall because it marks the beginning of that wonderful stretch of time during which I have to pay almost no attention to my lawn.

I love dead grass. Because I don't have to mow it. Or trim it. Or weed it. I don't have to do anything to it. Which means I can spend my time doing things that I do want to do - like sitting on my rear and reading.

It's a joy to watch the summer sun slowly strangle my lawn (helped along by my refusal to supply any water whatsoever) until it is just a gasping patch of brown in the simmering heat. That last mow in the mid-summer is great - you mow your entire lawn only to turn around and say, "Hmm. It doesn't look any different." That's when you know it's good and dead.

As the late summer rains come, the lawn usually tries to make a comeback. But like most comebacks (a la the Backstreet Boys and Michael Richards) the results are weak and sporadic at best. A few ugly flashes of crabgrass. One random weed that suddenly sprouts six feet in the air. Usually one good mow or even some hacking with a machete will put this effort to rest.

And then, minus an hour or two of raking leaves, it's smooth, sweet sailing until March. That cold Oregon air will take care of the rest, leaving me plenty of time to plan my assault on the new lawn once it starts rearing its ugly head. Someday when I am old and gray, I am most definitely going to be one of those guys with a big patch of rocks instead of a lawn. I also plan to wear tiny blue shorts and knee-high white socks, but that's for another post.