Kim Jackson

I am a killer.

From upstairs in my house I can look out the window into the backyard at my victim, its lifeless form sprawled on the ground. It wasn’t murder. I didn’t mean to do it. It was more like negligent homicide. I was trying to do the right thing. But bad advice – not to mention being cheap and lazy – cost another living thing its life.

I’ve been hiding from the truth, hoping the whole thing was just a nightmare. But it’s time to come clean and face the music.

My new lawn is dead.

Not dormant like all the other lawns, sleeping soundly and dreaming of spring. But pale, hay-colored, E.T. in the stream dead.

It all started in the fall. Being my first new lawn I wanted to do the right stuff before winter, which meant weed and feed. Easy. But applying the stuff meant using something to spread it with. And on the back of the bag there was all this gibberish about pounds per square foot, what to spread it with and how and blah, blah blah. I have a hand-crank broadcast spreader for seed, but using that meant possibly killing everything else in the yard. A push-type drop spreader would do the trick, but I didn’t have one. I got on the phone to the one guy I knew had put in a lawn – that lived.

Ric. He suggested I use a much simpler method: “Just spread it by hand. That’s what I’ve done.”

How simple and organic. Like the early settlers, reaching into their canvas bags slung over their shoulders, casting weed and feed onto their log cabin lawns. What could go wrong?

Donning rubber gloves, I took my bag of weed and feed and began slinging the tiny pellets around, trying to lay down an even pattern. Back and forth, back and forth, around and around, until the whole area was covered.

Then just a little more here.

And there.

That spot needs a little more.

Oops, missed a spot.

Too thin over there.

Not enough here. There. And there, there there there and… there. Pretty soon the whole bag was gone.

Let weed killing and nourishment begin.

After a time, weeds began to turn curl up and turn black. All seemed well, until one day I looked from the upstairs window and noticed a funny pattern on the lawn, almost like the bleached ribs of some animal were tossed around the yard. I went down to check it out: the grass was dying. I tried watering it to see what would happen. Nothing.

Grass continued to die. I figured it would stop, but death was everywhere. Soon, it was all gone. The lovely grass that had  caressed our feet all summer was now as dead as the public option. That’s right: weed-and-feed-icide. Our two daschunds, the Weener Boys, trot over its carcass callously, doing their business with no regard for the departed.

Sure, I made excuses: It was too hot when I applied it; the Weener Boys did it; it was Tuesday. But I knew right where to put the blame.

On Ric.

No, it’s my fault. I did it. Instead of relying on Ric’s  voodoo gardening, I should have read the directions. How much per square foot? Seems too complicated. Is there a Lawn Care for Dummies book? Of course there is. But being and American male means never having to read the directions, right?

Tell that to my lawn.

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