DEMENTIA CARE: THE GRASSY KNOLL.

Changed my clothes. Ate cooling soup. Vacuumed the kitchen carpet. I fought a battle on the grassy knoll. And I mostly won that fight. The wounds I carried away from there were all grassy flecks and stray blades of yellow-green-yellow.
   In other words, spring sprang on the first of March, and I discovered a warm sunny day waiting for me outside. This was in the outside of the Covid-World, but…outside, just the same. The snowdrop snowed and the crocus croaked.

 I admired an absolutely phenomenal sunset backing a hazy veil of cloud. Long before I stood in the darkening street staring at that, and some shadow-less time after the morning frost departed, I saw the daily carer out the door, fired up the microwave for soup – Spring Vegetable – and then went out to cut the grass.

There isn’t much grass. And the grass that exists lies beyond the fence. It’s a quirk of the fence that the fence is back from the place where the fence should be. For reasons unknown, this is the way of the fence.
   And that leaves grass growing on my side of the public pathway. Yes, grass grows on the other side of the public pathway. I know, on my side, I am responsible for keeping the verge tidy. The verge is artificially inside the garden, if outside the fence.
   This isn’t part of a discussion on a level with the establishment of Switzerland’s borders. We live in the apocalyptic landscape of an apocalyptic landscape. The local authority isn’t doing terribly much to control the weedscape. Safety first. Grass verge…much further down the list of priorities.
   Occasionally, there’s an official culling. I, too, on sunny days will go and spray the weeds unofficially. There aren’t many tumbleweeds to spray. I take care of gardening problems. Except, during the year of Covid, I put safety first.
   Loads of Covidiots gathered in football-crowd-sized swarms to partake of a sunny day – right out there, going past the fence. Gradually, that nonsense calmed down. By then it was winter.
   Oh no. I never tidied the grass by the fence last year. Well, the only contact I had with my dentist last year was over the phone. That was to cancel my appointment and assure me that I’d still be registered as a patient. Someone would get back to me.
   Around the time my lidless gums collapse in on themselves and I take to sucking my meals through a straw attached to another straw, I think.
   Sunny day. Check. Time on my hands, with all appointments done. Check. No incoming parcels today. Check. Possibility of receiving a telephone call while using a noisy electrical device? High.
   I had a plan. Check my phone once I’d finished with the grass. Not much of a plan. But a plan, just the same.
   Tools. Steel toecap boots. Goggles. Headphones. The weatherproof extension reel. Oh, and the strimmer. I hate the strimmer. It is the ideal tool for eliminating lines and clumps of grass. If I had loads of grass to cut, I’d use a mower.
   When possible, I’ll use weedkiller. I hate the weedkiller. And I’m not keen on the weatherproof extension reel, the goggles, or the headphones. Do I hate gardening? I get by on a minimal amount of gardening.
   There comes a time, in summer, when I must trim the tree. I can’t see to trim the tree brilliantly, not with the leaves in the way. So I snip and snap and lop, and the tree comes out of it pretty well. In autumn, the leaves leave and I see the strange twisty branches I’ve let slide. But I don’t object to the strange twisty branches.
   Sometimes gardening, even minimal gardening, is an escape from being a carer. I’ll wave in through the window, and rattle a gardening implement in the air to show what I am doing.
   With Covid, being outdoors is a thing…but it is a risky thing with humans around. I take the same precautions as before. The day of vaccination looms large. Can’t fold at the knees now.
   Out I strode along the path, trailing the extension reel behind me. Goggles. Headphones. The boots were on. I hauled the strimmer out separately and checked it over. Finger off the trigger, even when disconnected.
   There are always bits and pieces to adjust.
   Let us cut a long story short. I readied the strimmer and plugged it in. Went inside and switched it on. Returned to find it wasn’t stolen. I’d made sure the cables were clear of the monster.
   Looking around for people and not finding any, I test-fired the live machine. Working. Then it was on to the matter of the huge mat of grass. Grass seeds filled the cracks and crevices over the year.
   You could say that of every piece of tarmac around. The streets are networks of gas and water repairs from days gone by. They also serve as pathways for humans, cats, dogs, creepies, crawlies, and birds. Generally, though, pathways show where pipes were put in, ripped out, and put in again. And the grass knows all this.
   In time, a line of grass became a wall of woe. I launched repeated attacks on the faded greenery. Occasionally I stopped and set the strimmer aside to pick out large stones or pebbles. Where soil drifted in and contributed to the mat effect, I attacked with a paint scraper.
   Belatedly, I added a large brush to the toolkit. Once most of the grass was felled and I’d shouted timber for the umpteenth time, I brushed the grass off the path onto the…grass. Over on the far side of the path, in another land, the decapitated stalks of grass received an open-air burial. Only high wind could give away the last resting-place…by disturbing the last resting-place.
   The garden waste bin was too far away. Much easier to brush the grass over a short distance onto grass. I had breaks. A hard edge took out the twine. You hear the motor change pitch and there’s no more cutting of the grass.
   Finger off the trigger. Strimmer down. Unplug the strimmer from the extension reel. Pick up the strimmer. Press the trigger, discharging any last vestige of current. Upend the strimmer. Remove the casing. Fiddle around with the spool. Reset the length of twine. Snap the casing in place. Yes, it is twine. Or string. Don’t know why those names stuck.
   Reverse the procedure. Lie the strimmer down. Check surroundings. Plug in. Finger off the trigger. Test. It works. Back to it.
   My soup was cooling. I remembered that after twenty minutes of hacking at this miniature jungle. Strim away. Rest the machine. Switch to the paint scraper. Cut out the harder sections of grass. Matting. Jungle. Wilderness. Brush brush brush.
   I felt the strimmer buzz along my steel toecap once. That is why I wear steel toecaps. Warm day. Sweat pouring out. Soup cooling. A woman walked her dog around the corner while I wrestled with the cap, fixing the spool again.
   In the distance, a pink figure scootered into view, off to my left, shouting THANK GOD. I suspect she appeared to find out the source of the grass-cutting sounds. Just in time for the grass-cutting sounds to end.
   I fixed the spool and returned to cutting the grass with a measure of glee.
   Inevitably, the soup was cool when I reached it. Changed my clothes. Ate cooling soup. Vacuumed the kitchen carpet. I fought a battle on the grassy knoll. And I mostly won that fight. The wounds I carried away from there were all grassy flecks and stray blades of yellow-green-yellow.
   No slashed feet for me. And the steel toecaps survived, as well. I have several pairs of sturdy boots, and I chose to wear the old pair. Slightly done. The vacuum picked up a load of grass. In new clothes, I was grass-free. Peace returned to the air. I set the brush back inside its cupboard. Next, I think, I’ll take the weedkiller to the area in small doses.
   Sunny days are dished out in small doses, or I’d use weedkiller more often.
   So much for the garden on one side of the house. The other garden is easier to deal with. Better layout. Nothing more than that. Yes, there’s still grass to deal with. The strimmer strims on that side of the divide, too.
   One garden is more in use than the other is. When I could look out of the window and see a new layer of green beyond the fence, it was time to wrestle the strimmer into action. In caring, outwith caring, there are always dangerous pieces of equipment. The gas cooker. An electric drill. The strimmer. A door.
   I always ration the use of the strimmer. This past year, I really limited the machine’s outings. Social isolation for machines. This is what we’ve come to. Where did it lead? To a massive upswing in grass deaths.
   The important thing is that all the gravel bounced off my goggles. I stay super-safe when I use a super-dangerous machine. Always scribble a sharpened pencil down to a less-dangerous point.