The grass is always greener...
The Cataluna House, where SOS and I have honeymooned since our return to the mainland from Catalina, has a back lawn.
This lawn, at its widest point, is approximately twice the width of our lawn mower. On the other side of our back fence is a golf course which stretches for acres. The first Saturday that I pulled out the mower to make two back and forth passes over the lawn, I fantasized about picking up the green postage stamp masquerading as a back yard, and throw it over the fence so the custodial staff at the golf course would cut it as they dreamily drove on their riding mowers.
Surely they wouldn't even notice such a small addition, and I'd pull the lawn back over to my side of the fence before they even woke up.
But in Southern California, a patch of green grass, no matter how small, is a precious priority, and so SOS and I have carefully mowed, and weeded, and watered... anticipating that day when we are told to move out and must leave a showplace of Southern California dreaming behind us.
Enter the field mice.
The bottom portion of the fence which separates our postage stamp from the greens of golfing bliss is a brick wall. In this brick wall are two cracks not wide enough to stick my thumb into. And out of these cracks come an entire family of field mice who dart in and out, somehow squeezing their round little bodies through, and steal pieces of our grass taking them to the other side and leaving bare dirt trails behind.
If they would stand still long enough, I might just get down on eye level with them and tell them the same story the prophet Nathan told King David about a rich man with many sheep stealing the poor man's only lamb to feast on.
What could be so very much better about our grass than the lawns that are paid to be green?
Maybe if I got down on eye level with the mice, they would tell me. Or maybe it is true... the grass is always greener on the other side.
This lawn, at its widest point, is approximately twice the width of our lawn mower. On the other side of our back fence is a golf course which stretches for acres. The first Saturday that I pulled out the mower to make two back and forth passes over the lawn, I fantasized about picking up the green postage stamp masquerading as a back yard, and throw it over the fence so the custodial staff at the golf course would cut it as they dreamily drove on their riding mowers.
Surely they wouldn't even notice such a small addition, and I'd pull the lawn back over to my side of the fence before they even woke up.
But in Southern California, a patch of green grass, no matter how small, is a precious priority, and so SOS and I have carefully mowed, and weeded, and watered... anticipating that day when we are told to move out and must leave a showplace of Southern California dreaming behind us.
Enter the field mice.
The bottom portion of the fence which separates our postage stamp from the greens of golfing bliss is a brick wall. In this brick wall are two cracks not wide enough to stick my thumb into. And out of these cracks come an entire family of field mice who dart in and out, somehow squeezing their round little bodies through, and steal pieces of our grass taking them to the other side and leaving bare dirt trails behind.
If they would stand still long enough, I might just get down on eye level with them and tell them the same story the prophet Nathan told King David about a rich man with many sheep stealing the poor man's only lamb to feast on.
What could be so very much better about our grass than the lawns that are paid to be green?
Maybe if I got down on eye level with the mice, they would tell me. Or maybe it is true... the grass is always greener on the other side.
Comments
mmmm yummy grass.