Reluctant to Keep Up With The Jones
By Mr.e

"So, ... are you sure you're up to it?" The question was loaded.

Our mettle as new neighbors not yet having been tested in things yard maintenance, it also implied that we might not be up to this task. This query also suggested a distant hope; just.

Our neighbor meant well.

This neighbor hoped we would attain the standard that their yard set. As for the standard, I'm afraid that it was a bit Jonesy for our blood and we decided early on in the nightmare front and back yard we had just moved into, not to bother, but rally we did, valiantly.

This neighbors yard was kept so tidy, the lawn tended so expertly that its edges looked applied with the aid of a straight-edge and the dirt between seasonally planted and transplanted greenery virtually plucked clean of any foreign element.

By stark compare, our yard sported legions of dandelions, was peppered with maple seedlings and besieged by the death defying morning glory. The lawn (if one can call it that) had not been mowed for some time. The back yard was in even worse shape, a riotous and writhing weed chaos that might have scared off more circumspect renters. The smallish crop circle on the primal lawn added just a speck of interest in an otherwise urban primal jungle. Five years of yard neglect looked like this.

Determined to make this yard livable and attractive once more, I swore that I would reclaim this wasteland (I just swore a lot actually). I'd show the Jones next door. And ask lots of questions too. I'd ask her how they kept the lawn edges so straight and the lawn weed free and how to get all the foreign debris out of the dirt. These were all questions this neighbor could help us with.

It would be work, but worth the effort.

The list of questions I wanted to ask went up in a puff of mental smoke the day I saw the yard maintenance guy slaving away bare-chested next door. So that's how it was done! Now I fully understood the initial challenge. 75 yard waste bags later and the blood curdling battle joined with the ferocious morning glory guerilla forces, I unearthed a sizable erstwhile garden plot. We would create a garden, our first.

Serenaded by sounds of snipping, sweeping and other delicate maintenance noises seeping through the fence that divides our hell from Jones Villa, we set to work. While next door the concrete walks were tickled with a stiff brush and the house siding regularly treated to a soapy wash, we were making walkways with rocks sifted from the dirt, mounded raised beds and seeded selected vegetables.

We could easily have followed suit and employed the same lawn guy who regularly works three adjoining properties along our street. However that would mean that we'd accepted the challenge to keep up to Jones-like standards and habits.

We enjoy doing the work, and love the hard-won changes wrestled them from the lot. Turning a jungle into pleasing surroundings by sheer willpower, blood, sweat and beers provides thrilling victories and moments to savour.

Admittedly, this rental house is nothing you'd put in a postcard, but now that the front door is painted a cheery yellow, the frame a color that compliments the listless green of the house, pedestrian traffic slows markedly to check out the new attitude at this address. It's a welcome change, we're comfortable and the landlord grudgingly admits it too.

Last weekend we installed our very own scarecrow to watch over our fledgling garden. He's got attitude, dreads that can't be bought and still frightens us from time to time. Perhaps he frightens the Jones' next door too. By the way, our beans, peas, carrots, garlic, dill, onions, squash, pumpkins, corn, beets, potatoes and spinach are doing well and harvest time seems so far off .

Well, time to go pick some more morning glory and to forcibly evict any slug found on the premises.