Volume XIII, Issue III
May/June 1999

Yard Work: The Reason Lawyers Work Indoors

by Evan Loeffler

One of the reasons why I wanted to own my own home was that I wanted my own yard. This not to say that I wanted to take care of it. It is well known that I don't like any sort of work at all. I wanted my own yard so that I could walk in my back yard and feel the satisfaction of knowing that the grass under my bare feet is my grass. I wanted to laze away a sunny weekend afternoon lying in the back yard with nothing to keep me company but a good book and pitcher of iced tea.

The fact that I live in Seattle, and therefore haven't seen a sunny weekend afternoon in two years, did not enter into my thinking when I purchased my house. Nor did the fact that I haven't had the time to do any serious lazing since college. I looked for, and eventually purchased a house boasting a small backyard with a dense patch of weeds and shrubbery where the grass was supposed to go.

When Spring came, I started making periodic forays into the yard to pull weeds and remove all non-grasslike growth.. After several such sallies I took stock of my backyard: several hundred square feet of much-trampled weeds and shrubbery.

At this point I knew I would not be cultivating my lawn without outside help. Those who know me well probably think I simply went whining to my father for help. Not so. Enough of my youth was spent pushing a lawn mower over my father's backyard that I felt confident I could handle this project without his helpful abuse.

I knew that what I needed were lawn TIPs or "Testosterone Inducing Powertools." No modern day outdoorsman is complete without a noisy, smoke-belching, fossil fuel devouring, whirring instrument of indiscriminate destruction. Paul Bunyan, noted woodsman and macho guy, is a mere flower-pressing sissy compared to an overweight slob with a chainsaw. I had to have TIPs if I was going to conquer the lawn.

In order to achieve mastery over my lawn I purchased a Bionic Weedsmacker 2000. A true TIP, the Weedsmacker came with racing stripes, lots of levers and buttons, many danger stickers and a two year guarantee. I began to feel the initial euphoria of sense-dulling testosterone as I filled out the "Waiver of liability for loss of limbs if used in an incredibly stupid manner" card. I started the Weedsmacker and laughed evilly at the weeds now cowering miserably at my feet. No longer was I a mild-mannered attorney. I had transformed into the Lawn Barbarian.

Carving a swath of destruction with each swing of my thews, the Weedsmacker and I made short work of all that lived in the backyard. As I switched off the TIP, I surveyed my handiwork. Not a weed remained unsmacked. Barely pausing to let my testosterone approach mortal levels, I unsheathed my second TIP: the Z-6 Ultra-Cultivator. The Z-6 is really just a rake that hums and makes exploding noises every time it touches the ground. No matter. The Lawn Barbarian was not to be trifled with. A few hours later the ground lay cultivated.

I spread grass seed, watered the lawn, and waited patiently for a week for grass to grow. In anticipation I even purchased a lawn chair. When I examined my back yard I found a barren patch of dirt littered with the carcasses of dead weeds. Not a blade of grass to be seen.

At this point, my interest in the project having waned, I called my father. I explained how I had mowed, hoed, sowed and watered. Dad, as usual, diagnosed the problem right away.

"You're an unbelievable idiot," he said. "How can it be that you, a lawyer of all people, have forgotten to spread fertilizer?"

I am now the proud owner of a patch of dirt sparsely populated by a few meek tufts of sorry-looking grass. My testosterone having ebbed back to its normal level, I have decided to take a more cerebral approach towards the backyard problem. I tried convincing myself the yard is better this way since it doesn't need much in the way of care or watering. That approach having failed, I have decided to hold a lawn party and barbecue. Admission to the party is one square foot of sod. People who bring crabgrass may not have any beer. Any takers can RSVP to my office.

Evan Loeffler an associate at the Seattle firm of Harrison, Benis & Spence, and the editor of De Novo. Any semblance to any persons depicted in this article (other than Mr. Loeffler's father who is really like that) is purely coincidental.