I'm not known as a great horticulturist. But I try.
However, during last week's heat wave my lawn turned in its green card and went over to the brown side.
I'm sure it must have been something I said, because I'd put plenty of water on the darn stuff. Made no difference, those little lawn leaves popped their sun shades and got a nice, dark brown tan. Some may never come back from their summer vacation, leaving dead areas that make my yard look like a zombie's bad haircut.
Understand, grass and I have a love-hate relationship. I love the way it looks when it's freshly clipped and green. It hates pleasing me.
For example, I want grass to grow in my yard. Nowhere else. While I may have trouble growing grass in my lawn, I have no trouble growing it in the cracks in my concrete driveway. Or my flower beds. Or my sidewalk. But in my lawn? My grass doesn't seem all that interested.
Perhaps it's true the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence (like the one between my lawn and my driveway).
They say if you talk to your plants, they'll respond and grow. I talk to my flowers and they commit suicide. Jump right out of their pots to fall, screaming, onto my deck. It's not pretty.
They say music will help things grow. But the Beethoven I play gets drowned out by the boom-box rap in the kids' cars driving by. Besides, as far as I can tell, the only music lovers I've got in my lawn are dandelions. I have a lot of those.
I'm convinced my lawn doesn't like me. It has a bad attitude as far as I'm concerned. That's why they call it crab grass.
Still, I'll keep trying -- and dream of the day I can replace it with astroturf. It's what you do when you have a brown thumb.