Yesterday we were happily digging out a new bed where the compost bin used to be. I gave up on the mower. (How pathetic is it that none of us can run a mower? When we need a new one I think I’m going to insist on a human-powered one.) So I was attacking the grass that had overgrown around the compost bin with some very dull clippers, which at least got it down to where I could get the shovel in.
I was working away when I felt the unpleasant feeling of Something Crawling Up My Leg. I dismissed it the first time–there’s a big weed that produces these barbed little seeds and they have been sticking all over my clothes, tickling me. But then it did it again, more unmistakeably and more oddly–like something long and skinny and flat. And it was crawling higher and higher, until it was most of the way up my thigh.
Finally I had had it, yelled to the kids to stay in the backyard and dashed inside to take off my jeans. Inside was a long blade of grass. Somehow that leaf of grass had crawled all the way up my leg and given me a foot-long scratch on my thigh. Walt Whitman never mentioned this.
Then again, maybe I need something motorized just to scare the homicidal grass.