When I managed to sneak away from SAM for a couple of days last week, it wasn't so I could go partying with the girls, even though Daughter and I did manage to stop by Blazzues in Pensacola last Wednesday night, which is swing night. She's the swing dancer, and I don't do either one--swing or dance. I had fun watching her get swung around the dance floor while I politely rejected offers to dance, drink, and make merry with the menfolk. My excuses were genuine. I already have a full dance card--points to her wedding ring--and my left foot has been acting more sinister than usual since I whacked it against a concrete step while moving into the apartment. It's a good thing we have a riding mower to tackle this monster of an acre and health insurance for a visit to the podiatrist. At least it--the lawn, not the foot--seems like a monster in the summertime when the Bahia blooms and its seed heads sprout. Besides the seed heads, the only other irritating aspect of this grass that I can think of is its tendency to dull the mower blades. This UF publication recommends setting the blades to keep the grass height at 3 to 4 inches, which is higher than most turf grasses and therefore not attractive to most lawn lovers. It provides "a good low-maintenance lawn where slightly reduced visual quality is acceptable." In that case, it suits me just fine even though it's certainly not a grass cushion to rest on while reading your favorite summer-time scribe. I give it a "V" for victory. What's your favorite kind of grass--the lawn kind, I mean--and summer-time scribe?
If all the trees in all the woods were men;
And each and every blade of grass a pen;
If every leaf on every shrub and tree
Turned to a sheet of foolscap; every sea
Were changed to ink, and all earth's living tribes
Had nothing else to do but act as scribes,
And for ten thousand ages, day and night,
The human race should write, and write, and write,
Till all the pens and paper were used up,
And the huge inkstand was an empty cup,
Still would the scribblers clustered round its brink
Call for more pens, more paper, and more ink.
A poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.