When my sister and I were in elementary school, my dad decided that he was done dealing with the lawn.
Now for my parents,'dealing' with the lawn meant mowing it three times a year and praying for rainfall so they didn't have to drag the hose out from the garage. Our yard was dry in some parts, overgrown in others. At one point my little sister fell asleep in a patch of grass about two feet high, and we had to call the police because we thought she was abducted. Four hours later she stumbled sleepy-eyed into the house, and Dad goes, "Damn, I should really cut that grass."
There was also the issue with the animal graveyard. Half the lawn was covered in graves from our long dead friends, like Stephen King's Pet Cemetery. The tombstones were laid out side by side, the names of our former animals listed on them- Goldie, Muffin, Felicia, Pinky- god, did we always name our pets after prostitutes? It was like looking at a porn star lineup.
My parents claimed that they were going to just cover the entire yard in bark and forget about it, and two weeks later the trucks came in and dropped enough bark in our backyard to fill about eighteen dumpsters. It covered everything- the pet cemetery, the grass, the half-dead bushes. Our backyard was basically bark with a fence around it.
We had the red bark, so when it rained, the color would leak into the front of the house, staining the entire sidewalk with what resembled blood. It was like something out of The Shining. The bark was real soft, too- my sister and I could jump in it, play in it, roll around in it- honestly, it was like living in a gerbil cage. My parents would leave bottles of water and pellets of food next to the bark so that we wouldn't come into the house. For anything.
"Just cover your poo up with the bark," my mom said, after explaining to us to just shit in the bark and than cover it up with- more bark. There was so much bark that you could hide anything in it- excrement, toys, dead bodies, whatever.
I don't think the neighbors liked it very much, but really- would you want to look at a pile of pencil shavings everyday on your way to work? I didn't blame them, really. I mean, can you image if somebody had accidentally thrown a cigarette butt on my parent's lawn? The entire neighborhood would have gone up like it had been firebombed. Our house had more kindling than the Boy Scouts.
My parents still live in that house and the bark is still there- a little weathered, yes- but still there. Along with the carcass of my dead cat, Felicia, of course.
Quarter Life Whatever
3 years ago