When I first moved into this duplex and was told that I’d have to mow the lawn or pay an exorbitant fee to have it mowed by the landlord (not to mention earn his displeasure), I blanched.
The last lawnmower I owned is a decade gone from my life, and the only tool I’ve been using to coif the hardscrabble, semi-feral patches of flora I’ve since been entrusted to manage is a weed-whacker, now left in the possession of my erstwhile wife. Yet here I am, staring at a yard. A regulation, turfed yard.
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