SOUTHWORDS

When my sainted mother, God rest her soul, was asked what her favorite movie was she replied without hesitation, and rather gaily I thought, The Silence of the Lambs. This was, after all, the same woman who dressed a county fair-sized teddy bear in a Mike Ditka football jersey and positioned it like a scarecrow on her coziest easy chair to ward off her pet housecat, whom she detested.

That aside, there is a sequence in the Jodi Foster/Sir Anthony Hopkins movie that hits terrifyingly close to home this time of year. I refer, of course, to the snippet of dialogue when Hannibal Lecter expounds on Buffalo Bill’s needs. “He covets. That is his nature. And how do we begin to covet, Clarice? Do we seek out things to covet? . . . No. We begin by coveting what we see every day.”

Which brings me to grass.

I can’t grow it. I’m not talking about that garish green winter stuff people cast about like fairy dust. I’m talking real Southern grass. Something solid that comes in bricks of sod on the backs of flatbed trucks. I’m talking grass that would chew tobacco if it had teeth and a cheek. I’m aware that we’re not supposed to covet that which belongs to our neighbors, but the simple fact is they have grass and I don’t. And it’s not just one or two of them. I could maybe live with that. No. They all have grass. Every single one of them. Coming home after daily counseling at my pub, the Bitter and Twisted, is like cruising through a gauntlet of carefully coiffed front yards taunting me.

Of course I’ve sought professional help. You know when you hire a roofer or a painter and they plant a sign in your yard by the road to advertise what a splendid job they’re doing? When I’ve contracted highly regarded yard folk, so concerned are they with their reputations that they want to put up a privacy fence so no one can see them. I’ve been quit by the best. Some last a day. Some a week. No one has made it through an entire growing season. There have been times when I tried to get a quote and they don’t even stop. Their truck slows down long enough to see what kind of shape my grass is in, then they jam the gas pedal to the floor like they’re being chased by flesh-eating mutant zombies.

And so, I struggle along the best I can, a DIYer. Like putting a pig on a lipstick, my philosophy is simple. If it’s green and it chooses to live in my yard, I welcome it. I’ll even buy it lunch. This includes all forms of moss, nature’s toupee. I could make penicillin in my backyard. And I love pine needles. Lots and lots of pine needles. They are the gardener’s version of wearing black to look thin.

It’s true that I don’t know much about what I’m doing but I remain optimistic, because I’m nothing if not coachable. In the days when I traveled frequently for work, the War Department once hired one of her co-workers who was looking for a little extra cash to come by a couple of times a month to whip the yard into shape, or at least keep it from rolling over stone-dead. I was deeply appreciative, though I was concerned that our yard — as you may have gathered — required a certain amount of local knowledge. This also pertained to the equipment I used to keep it up.

When Mr. Smith (let’s call him that because Durant wouldn’t want anyone to ever know he’d been associated with our yard in any way) came over on that first day, I happened to be home. I pulled our gas mower out of the shed and explained to him that the mower worked just fine, but it required a bit of finessing to get it started. He assured me he’d encountered a reluctant pull cord or two in his time. No, no, says I. It’ll start right up. All you have to do is flip the lawn mower upside down once or twice and it’ll fire right up. I demonstrated with a knowing grin.

Mr. Smith looked at me and said in the most measured of tones, “Well, I suppose you could do that. Or you could press this little button right here.” He pointed to the primer.

It made me wonder whatever happened to that Mike Ditka jersey.