“Blessed is he who expects nothing, for he shall never be disappointed.”
― Alexander Pope

I used to think that when you hired a yard person, your lawn would gradually and slowly look better throughout season.   I’ve learned over the last three summers that my prior thinking does not comport with reality.  Instead, lawn guys — even good ones, even decent ones — at least in Kansas City, set a price for mowing.  That bi-weekly sum covers a fair pass across the yard with whatever mower the hired man provides, and nothing else.

My present arrangement can involve weed eradication — chopped, not pulled or sprayed — for $45 a man hour, minimum two hours, two men.  Last month I paid $160 in addition to the cost of mowing for a decent, low-to-the-ground cutting of weeds on the backyard fence line.  One heavy rain and they all sprouted back, taller, sturdier, swaying in the morning breeze with something akin to mockery.

Today I decided to cut the dang weeds in the sideyard and on the fence line.  I spent four hours, used three different tools, and fell on my backside twice.  For my efforts, I have a semi-cleared expanse of over-grown perennials and a barrel full of cuttings.  I can barely move, much  less do anything else, and I’m fairly certain my coccyx will never forgive me. I hobble around the house wondering who will do the cleaning tomorrow, for I’m certainly in no shape for dusting, mopping, or laundry.

But this misery has its rewards.   I discovered a cluster of surprise lilies hiding behind three weeks of overgrown weeds.  In the afternoon heat, I leaned my tired frame over the hundred-year-old retaining wall to capture their image with my ever-present cell phone.  Lovely, I murmured, to no one. Just lovely.

It’s the evening of the sixth day of the thirty-second month of My [Never-Ending] Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.