Dear Friends,
This is the time of year when Gail and I, once again, attempt to grow grass. We have three ancient cherry trees and a tall Gingko tree in our front yard, so the area we seed each year isn’t large. And, because it receives a lot of shade, we have typically planted fescue which holds up better in less sunny conditions.
We have had better luck some years than others with our fall planting. There have been times when too much rain has washed our grass seeds down the street and into the storm drain, leaving our aerated front yard looking like a mud pool. Or, we have attempted to reseed the yard too soon. The fescue seeds failed to germinate and the Georgia heat eventually baked them hard and lifeless. And, then, there is always the dilemma of Halloween and how to best protect our young and fragile green shoots against the trampling of the little ghosts and goblins who run across it, flailing their orange Jack-o’-Lantern buckets.
We have running debates in our home as to whether we should aerate and seed at all. Weeds are green, goes one argument, and require fewer decisions regarding maintenance and use of chemicals. Most of our neighbors have resorted to Zoysia grass, goes another argument, which looks great and golf-ready most of the year – except in the winter when it resembles a carpet of dried, brown hay.
Because we couldn’t settle on the best course of action (and our window of warm days and cool nights was narrowing), we resorted this year to what we’ve always done – drill holes, drop seeds, water if needed, and hope for the best.
Grass is a ubiquitous plant and one that has accompanied me throughout life like an old friend. I have memories of my grandfather watering it, my father mowing it, playing in it, picnicking on it, and gazing out over it. Seeing large, waving fields of it invokes a feeling of hope and peace within me like nothing else can. There is something about grass that is as grounding to my spirit as the dark soil is to its roots.
Nineteenth-century American poet and Transcendentalist Walt Whitman wrote:
A child said What is grass? fetching it to me with full hands;
How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more than he.
I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green woven stuff.
Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt,
Bearing the owner’s name someway in the corners, that we may see and
remark, and say Whose?[1]
On these cool fall days, may we ponder the mystery of green handkerchiefs and the hopefulness of tiny seeds.
Warmly,
Terry
Rev. Terry Davis