Franken-lawn

[Editor's note: That several of my recent posts involve deaths of my relatives has not gone unnoticed. I guess I'm just in that point in my life (i.e. the point at which the lives of those two generations older than I are likely to be "rounded with a sleep.") If you've grown weary of this topic, feel free to sit this one out and wait for the next post.]

As mentioned earlier, the City of Cerritos has been breathing down our necks to fix up our house, which is actually, in my disinterested opinion, not in need of repair at all. If I were to concede a point to the City, however, it would be that there were some bald patches in the front lawn, which appears to be in overall-good health. Having just replaced some old juniper bushes with grass, I have leftover sod sections, which I have been cutting in to custom-sized plugs to fill in the missing sections of lawn. Now the gaping holes in the front lawn have been supplanted by a chimerical patchwork of old, broad-bladed yellowed grass, and new, thin, dark green blades.

In some places, the gaps were too gaping, so I had to rototill out entire sections, and replace them with 1'x5' sod sheets. These are the places that most resemble a franken-lawn, because you can clearly see where I have unearthed old sections to replaced them with new ones.

While working on the lawn, I considered how like my living in this house is the fragmentary replacement of some sections of grass: my old, decrepit uncle has passed away, and here I am, the replacement-resident coming in to take his place—to fill the spot that he has left vacant.

And in this respect, it feels somehow wrong, as though I were usurping his position, or booting him out. I know this is no more true than the suggestion that in an act of premeditation, the new sod sections maliciously ousted the former sections of grass, thereby creating the void for their arrival. It may be no more true, but feelings have the nasty habit of being immune to reason.

Yet in other ways, my occupation of the house feels like the blended sections of half old, half new grass. I planted inpatients in the front walkway, because uncle bill used to have inpatients there. In the backyard, I am growing many of the same vegetables as he did: tomatoes, eggplant, zucchini; I bought a camilla for the front to plant in a bare spot on the little mound, because I think he would like the camilla, and it works well with the existing plants. On the other hand, I have made choices in the landscaping that reflect *my* preferences. The little flowering maples (Abutilon) and the Angel's Trumpets (Brugmansia) show my penchant for papery, pendulous flowers, especially in yellows and apricot tones; the Bougainvillea also reflects this predilection.

Obstructed from concluding this episode gracefully—a problem compounded by laziness—I will simply mention that we still refer to the house as "Uncle Bill's house." For example, if my mom calls my cellular phone and inquires as to my whereabouts, I respond "at Uncle Bill's."