I am crouched on my Lincoln Park living room floor, a towel-wrapped carrier to my left and a tiny, folded-eared face peeking out like it's plotting my demise. It is 6:42 p.m., the radiator is ticking, and the city outside smells like someone burned coffee in an alley. I had been 100 percent sure I...
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She was hissing under the couch and I was sitting on the hardwood, socks damp from the Lincoln Park dampness that had crept in the door when I brought the carrier inside. It was 6:17 p.m., the sky outside was that toxic winter blue Chicago does so well, and the first purr I heard felt like a...
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I was crouched in the backyard at 7:12 p.m., phone flashlight bouncing off damp leaves, trying to show a landscape contractor a brown patch under the big oak. The evening had that humid Mississauga tiredness, traffic on Lakeshore Road humming in the distance, and the smell of cut grass from the...
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I’m kneeling in mud at 7:12 p.m., rain clouds hanging over the Lorne Park pines like an impatient neighbor, and for the third time this week I’m muttering about soil pH. The backyard under that stupidly large oak has been a battle zone for three summers. Yesterday it was just me, a packet of...
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I was kneeling in the mud at 7:15 a.m., phone on speaker, rain still whispering off the big oak leaves, when the foreman from the second crew showed up thirty minutes late and acted like I had interrupted his sacred schedule. The backyard smelled like wet mulch and cigarette smoke from the...
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I was on my knees at 7:12 AM in damp soil, the smell of cut grass still hanging from the neighbor's yard, and the big oak's shadow swallowed most of my backyard. My hands were gritty, coffee gone cold in a thermos, and I was five hours into trying to wrestle a thin strip of turf into anything that...
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I was kneeling in the dirt at 7:30 a.m., mud on the knees of my cargo pants and a coffee gone lukewarm, while a leaf the size of my hand thudded into the yard from the big oak over the fence. The spot under that oak has been a graveyard for grass for years. Yesterday I finally decided I would...
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I’m kneeling in the dirt, shirt damp from the humid Mississauga afternoon, and there is this absurd amount of hope riding on a single bag of seed. Two hours earlier I almost clicked pay for an $800 premium blend that promised "lush Kentucky Bluegrass" for shady yards. I would have cried in front...
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I was crouched in the dirt at 5:30 p.m., a half-eaten Tim Hortons cup sweating beside my knee, watching a kid on a bike skid past on Lakeshore like he owned the whole street. The oak tree over my backyard has been winning that area for years. It drops a carpet of twigs and shade and, apparently,...
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I was on my knees at 7:15 a.m., dirt under my nails and a coffee gone cold on the porch railing, poking at a stubborn patch under the old oak while a garbage truck rattled down the street. The neighbor's dog barked like it was auditioning for a movie. My plan for a "simple" front yard redo had...
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I am kneeling in the damp, loamy shadow of the big oak at 6:12 p.m., spade in one hand, a torn bag of "premium sun mix" in the other, and I finally admit I am completely out of my depth. The backyard smells like wet wood and crushed grass, traffic from Burnhamthorpe humming faintly two blocks...
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I was on my knees in the dirt at 7:12 a.m., shirt already stuck to my back from humidity, muttering at a patch of soil the size of a coffee table that had been colonized by clover and crabgrass. The big oak in the backyard had decided it owns that patch, and apparently its rule is: you shall have...
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It was raining lightly when I realized I had been cursing the same patch of yard for two years. Mud on my knees, a small black hole where the grass should be under the old oak, and a phone full of screenshots from forums. I had just spent ten minutes scraping at a stubborn tuft of crabgrass that...
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I was on my hands and knees at 6:15 AM, dirt under my nails and a half-empty coffee cooling on the patio table, watching another tuft of weed surrender to the mower. The big oak in the corner was throwing the yard into permanent shade, and whatever grass tried to take hold under it looked...
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I was hunched over the kitchen table at 9:12 p.m., fluorescent porch light casting a harsh rectangle on receipts, business cards, and my phone screen. Rain had just started, a steady Mississauga drizzle that smells like wet asphalt and the river of leaves from the big oak out back. I had five...
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I was kneeling in the dirt at 7:15 a.m., right after the GO train thinned the morning traffic noise, trying to wrestle a clump of crabgrass out from under the oak's drip line and wondering how many more hours of this I could stomach. The backyard smelled like damp earth and cut grass, and a...
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I was kneeling in the mud at 9:12 AM, rain still clinging to my jacket, staring at a patch of backyard under the big oak that looked like a failed science experiment. Dirt, weeds, and a handful of stubborn moss. Cars on Lakeshore Road whooshed by with that damp-road hiss, a garbage truck idled two...
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