I am obsessed with my lawn. I’ve watched it gradually deteriorate since we bought the place. This house never had that much going for it, but the yard was so nice we figured they must have used a lawn service.
Now, despite two seasons of slavishly attending to its every need—weed killer, fertilizer, lime, new topsoil—it looks like crap. We’ve got weeds, brown spots, sparse patches, invading zoysia, you name it.
Joe gave up after the grass seed we planted and dutifully watered—and which appeared to be thriving—up and died. But I have only just begun to fight.
Fall is prime season for grass. I have a soil sample test kit, but it’s already late in the season, so I’m looking into aerating, dethatching, and top-dressing this weekend regardless of the results. Oh yes, I’ve done my research.
My biggest obstacle is Joe, who refuses to have anything further to do with our traitorous blades, and this:
The 288-pound core aerator I need to rent. But somehow, I’ll find a way.