She was scrunched under my couch at 11:27 p.m., making tiny chirps that sounded like a broken tea kettle, and I was on my back propped on one elbow trying to coax her out with a ribbon. The radiator in my Lincoln Park one-bedroom was humming, the window was cracked a sliver against the damp April...
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I am crouched on the living room floor at 11:13 p.m., flashlight app flickering because the overhead light makes her hide under the couch. She is not mine yet, technically — deposit pending, transport paperwork signed, my bank account looking lean — but she is already loudly examining my...
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I was on my hands and knees at 7:15 a.m., dirt under the nails, squinting at a patch of mud under the big oak that has ruled the backyard for thirty years. The neighbourhood was waking up—someone two houses down started a lawnmower and the Hurontario traffic hummed faintly through the thin morning...
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I was kneeling in damp shade at 7:30 a.m., knees caked with gummy clay, staring at a square of stubborn weed that had cheated every attempt at a lawn under our old oak. The city buses on Lakeshore rattled by more loudly than usual, someone in the neighbour's driveway started a leaf blower, and I...
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I was kneeling in the mud, phone flashlight wavering, trying to separate clover from something that looked suspiciously like a dandelion army. The big oak in the back yard was doing its usual thing: massive canopy, ancient sass, and a lawn that refuses to be anything other than a weedy patch...
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I was kneeling in mud at 7:15 a.m., rain still clinging to my hoodie, staring at what used to be "grass" under the old oak, when the neighbor's garbage truck growled past on Lakeshore and a gust sent wet leaves across my sneakers. I had just emailed a landscaper and typed the sort of sentence...
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I was hunched over a soggy shovel at 7:30 AM, rain jacket plastered to my back, staring at a strip of mud that used to be the nicest part of the backyard. The big oak tree has won a long time war against grass. Roots, shade, and water pooling have turned that corner into a weed nursery. Cars on...
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I was kneeling in mud at 7:15 a.m., rain-slick leaves stuck to my knees, and a landscaper’s quote printout blowing around on the patio table. The big oak at the back of the yard drops half the neighborhood into a permanent twilight by noon. That patch under the oak has been a weed sanctuary for...
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I was kneeling in cold, damp dirt at 7:30 a.m., staring at what used to be the nicer half of my backyard and wondering how the oak tree could win every year. The grass under that thing looks like a crime scene: thin, patchy, a stubborn mat of dead blades and weeds. I had soil on my hands, on my...
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I was on my hands and knees in the mud, cursing under my breath as a truck from the QEW rolled by and splashed grit on my shoes. It had been raining all morning, the kind of wet that makes the big oak in the backyard drip like an overwatered plant. Somewhere between the 8th and 10th cup of coffee...
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I am kneeling on my front step at 9:30 AM, soil under my nails, a coffee gone lukewarm beside me, while across the street a pickup with a Mississauga landscapers sticker idles at the light. The backyard under the big oak looks like a weed protest, and I've just had the exact same conversation with...
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I am crouched in the dirt at 7:03 a.m., shirt already damp from the weirdly humid April air Mississauga has been giving us, and a muddy spread of what I thought was grass stares back at me like a failed science experiment. The big oak in the corner throws shade most of the day, and under it the...
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I am on my knees in wet soil at 6:30 a.m., mud under my nails, sweat already cooling on the back of my neck because the sun has not hit the backyard yet. The giant oak throws a cathedral of shadow over the lawn and every time I dig an inch down I find the same thing: compacted clay, a few...
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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 am squatting on the damp back step at 7:13 p.m., phone in one hand, a half-empty mug of tea dangerously close to the edge with the other, watching a squirrel tap-dance across the top of the big oak. The yard smells like wet earth and crushed leaves. The streetlight across the lane flicks on,...
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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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