There comes a point in every man’s life when he realizes the yard is not a space he maintains. It’s a living creature he’s in an ongoing feud with. Mine declared war sometime last summer, and I’ve been losing ever since. Some days it feels like the same battle I watched my dad fight when I was a kid, him out there in a sweat‑stained trucker’s cap, pushing a mower that sounded like it was held together with hope and duct tape. I used to think he was being dramatic. Now I know he was simply telling the truth.

It started with the grass. I swear it grows faster here than anywhere else in the county. I can mow on a Saturday, admire my work, feel proud for exactly twelve minutes, and by Sunday morning it looks like I’ve not touched it in three weeks. I don’t know what’s in the soil, but I’m convinced it’s caffeinated. When I was younger, I thought grass just sort of existed. Now I know it’s a full‑time job with benefits and a retirement plan.

Then there are the weeds. I pull one up, and three more pop out of the ground like they were waiting in line. I’ve tried sprays, granules, vinegar, prayer, and one YouTube trick that involved dish soap and a level of optimism I no longer possess. The weeds remain unfazed. They remind me of the ones that used to creep up the fence line at my grandparents place, the ones my granddaddy called “volunteers” like they had signed up for the privilege of ruining his weekend.