Lawn “blower.” All photos by Bob Smith.

BY BOB SMITH

Now that we’ve moved to the shore house, and remodeled our home, I’m developing an inferiority complex about our front lawn. About three years ago, we thought we’d spruce up the place, so we put in underground sprinklers and a carpet of sod in the front and back yards. The landscaper tore up the weeds, and rolled out the new grass, like so much dirt-backed broadloom. It was thick, lush, and a deep money green. My yard looked like a golf course.

But almost immediately, crabgrass began to poke through the new turf, first along the seams of the rows of sod, then slowly in the middle too. Apparently, the roots and fragments left behind after the landscaper had cleared the ground were enough to allow the weeds to reassert themselves so that, within a month, my new sod lawn was nearly one-third crabgrass again.

My neighbor across the street, who always had a flawless lawn, had one word of advice:

Lawn poisoner.

“Poison,” he said. “Have the landscape guys come once in the spring, and then every few weeks, and spray weed killer on the lawn. No problem.”

Being too frugal to hire a landscaper just to spread death and destruction among the weeds, I bought a jug of granulated broad spectrum weed killer. “Broad spectrum” means it kills lots of different weeds, which is what I needed – who knew what evil weeds lurked under my new sod? And the stuff worked great – I put it down once, and the weeds stayed away for six weeks.

But then they started coming back, so it was time to re-apply. The problem was I’d already sworn, after the first application, that I’d never touch that stuff again. It came with use instructions and warnings as extensive as the Manhattan phone book. The manufacturer advises you to wear a respirator, special impermeable rubber gloves, goggles, long sleeves, long pants tucked into your shoes, and even hair protection when you apply the poison. You’re supposed to avoid working downwind, not breathe the dust, shower promptly afterwards, and launder your work clothes separately from other wash. And you’re to be especially careful not to apply it where pets, water fowl, or small children may come into contact with it.

Isn’t that what lawns are for? Dogs, cats, kids, and those Canadian geese crap-machines? If I followed those instructions, I’d be spreading poison pellets in a parking lot somewhere. And why the hair covering? Is the poison absorbed through hair follicles? Or does it just make your hair hurt?

So I surrendered and stopped applying the poison altogether, and within one season, my lawn returned to being all crabgrass, dandelion, and other weeds unknown. It looks particularly bad now because my next door neighbor has since laid down sod, and he has someone regularly apply weed toxins, so his lawn looks great.

One word: Plastic.

Like me, my across-the-street neighbor was tired of periodically contaminating the area surrounding his house with airborne and water-soluble death dust, but he’s taken an entirely different tack. His new word of advice, like the helpful neighbor in “The Graduate,” is simple: plastics. Specifically, plastic grass.

His lawn is picture perfect every day of the year because it’s Astroturf. The landscapers still come, and blow actual leaves and twigs off the plastic carpet, but it never needs cutting, watering, or chemical nuking. It’s a bold move, but I just can’t see myself buying a petroleum-based lawn covering that, despite the manufacturer’s assurances, is likely to fade, fray, and need replacement within five or 10 years.

We’ve just finished some more renovations, so our front lawn is now mostly dirt. It’s too late in the season to plant grass now, but come spring, the weeds will sprout, the dandelions will bloom, and our yard will look raggedy and scruffy again. My neighbors, I suspect, will secretly curse me for not keeping up appearances. I’ll endure their scorn in the hope that, by boycotting weed killer, I can avoid coming down with those annoying tumors of everything that seem to plague so many people these days.

In the meantime, I’m hoping for lots of snow cover this winter so that, at least for a while, I won’t be ashamed of my front yard.

BY BOB SMITH

Way-too-fat Bob.

My oldest son is getting married tomorrow. I am expected to wear a tuxedo. He and his fiancée are meticulous planners, so they told me months ago the name of the rental store where they were getting tuxedos for the bridal party. But I didn’t bother taking the name, because I assured them I had my own tuxedo.

In fact, I have three. Over the course of my 30-year career as a lawyer, I had to attend, each year, at least one or two formal events. After a couple of years of renting tuxedos (at $100 or more per rental), I realized that, in the long run, buying a tuxedo would be far cheaper. A decent tuxedo, after all, costs only between $300 and $500. It would pay for itself in a couple of years.

But you only realize the cost savings if you stay the same size, and can wear that tuxedo multiple times. I almost didn’t.
When I bought my first tuxedo I weighed close to 230 pounds, which for me (at barely 5’7″ tall) was gigantic. Because the pants came with a 40-inch waist, the jacket was made for a much taller, generally bigger man. Except for all the accumulated fat around my chest and midsection, I wasn’t that man.

So the tailor shortened the jacket, but left all the extra fabric around the middle, so it wouldn’t bind uncomfortably on my unseemly girth when I buttoned it up. I think that tuxedo cost $300, and I wore it for a couple of years – I got my money’s worth.

Fat Bob.

Then I decided to get healthy and lost 25 pounds. When the next formal dinner rolled around, the tuxedo in my closet was clearly too big. I was determined not to ever let myself get so fat that I would need that big tuxedo again, but I didn’t want the tailor to alter it, either. No – I wanted to keep the big tuxedo around to remind myself how bad things actually could be if I wasn’t careful. The second tuxedo, a size or two smaller than the first, again cost me $300 or $400. I wore that one for four or five years, maybe eight or nine times – an effective rental rate of about $40 per occasion. Not bad.

Time went by, and my attention to my health and weight slackened to the point where I weighed more than 220, and had to put on the jumbo tuxedo again. I was getting more mileage from the $300, but I was miserable. I decided to lose weight again.
This time, I went all the way – by the time I was through, I had lost nearly 50 pounds. But weighing in at 170, neither tuxedo would fit, and the difference in my size was too great for either one to be altered. I bought another.

The third tuxedo, like the others, cost $300 – $400. It’s a size 34 waist, and has a corresponding low 40’s size jacket. I wore that tuxedo to at least a half dozen events before my recent retirement from the law, so it too has paid for itself.

Fit Bob.

When my son’s wedding was a few weeks away, I went to the closet and pulled out all three sizes of tuxedo: the fit-Bob, the fat-Bob, and the I-can’t-believe-I-was-ever-that-fat Bob. As expected, the largest fit like a suit made for a circus clown. Even the intermediate size swam on me, as if I were wearing my older brother’s hand-me-down. I might get away with wearing that to the high school prom, but it won’t do for my son’s wedding.

I’m happy to say that the jacket for the fit-Bob tuxedo is still the perfect size. But the slacks, on the other hand, were a tad snug around the waist. Apparently, fit Bob is slipping a bit. So I finally gave in and took it to the tailor to let the waist out a couple of inches, which will make the pants fit comfortably.

When the wedding is over I’ll park it in the closet with my other two penguin suits to await the next formal occasion. Now that I’m retired, I don’t expect that many. But fit, fat, or far too fat, I’ll be ready.