The Gardener In The Winter Rye

Every year, I ask him, and every year, he says no. When has "no" ever stopped me before? So many times, I've lost count. But that's not the point of today's blog, you, so simma down. Post-wedding reception, I tried again. "Filiberto," I began. "Filiberto!" I repeated, hoping he'd turn off the leaf blower and listen to me. He hit pause and smiled, as though he knew what was coming. "Filiberto," I said once more, just 'cuz it's a fun name to say, "what are we going to do about all this dirt?" He shrugged. When it comes to my yard, he is the Zen Gardener. "The grass is dormant. There is nothing to do but wait." See what I mean? He knows what he can change and accepts what he can't do diddly about: the weather and the squirrels and the Royal Rescue Pup of Questionable Lineage wreaking havoc wherever he roams.

Will the grass return?

If only I could be more serene. If only I could be more like Filiberto. But alas, I yam what I yam. "Every year, I ask you about the dead grass, don't I?" He nodded. "And every year you shrug." "True." "Filiberto, put me out of my suffering. I can no longer look out at the dirt. I feel bereft and a bissel unhinged." "A what?" "Filiberto! Have you misplaced the Yiddish-Spanish dictionary I gave you last year for Hanukkah?" "I... ummm..." "A bissel means a little." "Ok." "What I'm saying is, I need a miracle, and I need it now." The Zen Gardener sighed. "You want the Winter Rye." "I want the Winter Rye." "You know how I feel about the Winter Rye." "You hate the Winter Rye." "I do." "Remind me. Why must you hate the Winter Rye?" "It is messy. It is sloppy. It is no good for my mower." "Too bad, and I say that with love. Everyone in the neighborhood has the Winter Rye. I want the Winter Rye, too." "You will get it." "Will it fill in the backyard?" "So fast, your head will spin like a dreidel." "I see what you did there, Filiberto, and I dig it." 

Within a week, up it came, the lovely Winter Rye.