After I finally got the old lawnmower fired up and got the leftovers from last year’s flowers and the winters detritus chewed up, the lawn was in shape—sort of.
A couple more buzzes and the grass was gaining ground on me. But in spite of the growing windrows of brown grass, I refuse to rake and carry. Grind it into mulch is my motto.
The edges, however, would not pass the Pearl’s inspection.