IN A GREEN NIGHTMARE

Aug 30, 2010 Features / Columnists, Tony Deyal column

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I used to like rain.  When I was growing up, the sound of the rain on the galvanised (zinc) roof was a symphony and lullaby simultaneously.  But now it galvanises me into action since the rain comes from the same direction as the wind so when the rain hits the roof, I do the same, climbing angrily out of bed to slam shut the windows, suffering and suffocating at the same time.  In a bedroom too closed for comfort, the sound of the rain on the roof no longer soothes or even suits my mood. Rain, in fact, has become a four-letter word.
The reason, as the poet Whitman unwittingly acknowledged, is leaves of grass.  I am not sure why Dave Martins of the Trade Winds, who is singing at the “grudge” match between Trinidad and Tobago and Guyana, grudges his Venezuelan neighbours a blade of grass among other items deemed to be part of the Guyanese national patrimony.
I can understand not giving up “no mountain”.  I can well appreciate not giving up “no sea” or even river.  I assume that “blue sakis” are birds that Trinis call “blue jeans” and even if a saki is not a bird or even rice wine but a pair of dungarees, brand name or not, I too would not part with it. The rice grain as well may be a kernel of patriotism and not negotiable.  If I knew what a “cuirass” was perhaps I might hold it as dear as Dave.  But not the blade of grass.
You may wonder why I am hostile to this graminoid or herbaceous plant that John James Ingalls eulogises as, “Unobtrusive and patient, it has immortal vigour and aggression. Banished from the thoroughfare and the field it bides its time to return and when vigilance is relaxed, or the dynasty has perished, it silently resumes the throne from which it has been expelled, but which it never abdicates.”
That’s why.  It bides its time and then comes out in a rash of sickly green making my blood bile, so to speak.   That is precisely why when the rain falls I start feeling miserable and look outside to see how much the grass in my yard has grown.   The merest drib or drab of rainfall is like steroids to Schwarzenegger.
I would willingly trade Jack’s beanstalks for my grass.  Jason can give me all his dragon’s teeth and have my grass.   If you ask me what varieties thrive and abound in my yard, I will tell you that I have Hydra, Cerberus and Gorgons as well.  Maybe even a Minotaur or two.  I have a Charles Lindberg for which the sky is the limit.
And then I have Grasszilla, the one that is always greener over the septic tank.   All flesh might be grass but the ones in my yard are a pain, not in all the flesh, but that particular part of the anatomy upon which one sits.  Cutting grass does not sit well with me either because I have to cut a whole half-acre of the stuff whenever it reaches to the point where we can’t see the dogs when we let them outside.  That is about every two weeks or almost immediately after every rainfall.
Unlike the rich man in the following story, I have no alternative.  Having invested in a lawn mower a few years ago, my financial situation is such that I am catching my grass just like the men who were near the roadside eating grass.  A rich man, riding in his limousine, saw them and stopped.
He asked one of the men, “Why are you eating grass?” The man replied that he and his friend were poor and had no money for food so they had to eat grass.  The other man said the same thing.
”Well, then, you can come with me to my house and I’ll feed you,” the rich man said.   The poor men explained that they had wives and children but that did not deter the rich man. “Bring them all,” he said.  They all climbed into the car and once underway, one of the poor fellows turned to the rich man and said, “Sir, you are too kind. Thank you for taking all of us with you.”
The rich man replied, “Glad to do it. You’ll really love my place. The grass is almost a foot high.”
The grass in my yard reaches that point with alarming and indecent haste.  My wife, tired of my constant complaints, has come up with a new angle.  She sent me an article from the Daily Mail which states, “Researchers have discovered that a chemical released by a mown lawn makes people feel happy and relaxed, and could prevent mental decline in old age.
Now scientists say they have developed a perfume which ‘smells like a freshly-cut lawn’ which relieves stress and help boost memory.  After seven years of research, Australian scientists say ‘eau de mow’ works directly on the brain, in particular the emotional and memory parts.”
Dr Nick Lavidis, a neuroscientist at the University of Queensland , Brisbane , who came up with the idea for the perfume, named Serenascent, said that there is good stress and bad stress.
”Bad stress is chronic stress and is associated with an increase in blood pressure, forgetfulness and a weakening of the immune system.”  Chronic stress has been shown to damage the hippocampus by reducing the number of connections between communicating cells, leading to memory loss.
Students working on the grass perfume project found that animals exposed to Serenascent – which combines three chemicals released when green leaves are cut – escaped damage to the hippocampus.
Cutting grass all the time is bad stress for me even though one of my friends told me that I was born for the job, “Other people’s ancestors came from Calcutta , yours came from Grasscutta.”
After my hell’s half acre, I would not be a likely prospect for Serenascent regardless of the state of my hippocampus.  In fact, I would not mind having a hippo on my particular campus since they can eat my grass and Dr. Lavidis can haul his.
*  Tony Deyal was last seen assuring his neighbour, who had asked to use his lawnmower, “Of course you can as long as you don’t take it out of my yard.”

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