Not your everyday conversation opener

After finding a volunteer seedling in the yard, I say to my wife: "Where would you like another palm tree?"

Ah, California!

And your taters got eyes

Me to my wife: "Honey, I was out in the container garden just now? And, um, did you intend to grow a big blue bucket full of swamp?"

Washtub abs

Most of us like to believe that we’re physically fit, or at least fit enough to get through our everyday lives without serious injury.

It’s easy to maintain that belief when everyday life involves nothing more strenuous than oozing off the sofa and going to the kitchen for more pork rinds. But once in a while, we’re required to actually do something physical -- such as lifting luggage into an overhead bin or tying our shoes -- and the resulting aches and pains prove that we’re kidding ourselves.

I exercise almost every day, walking miles on our Dreadmill and lifting tiny dumbbells (by their ears). But if I try something physically demanding, such as yardwork, I quickly find that I’m not fit at all.

My wife and I moved a seven-foot-tall palm tree from one area of our property to another. It took a couple of hours of surprisingly hard work, including a lot of shoveling and squatting and cursing. I expected to be fine after recovering from the initial heatstroke and mud bath, but hahaha on that. The next morning, every muscle between knees and chest, including some I didn’t know I had, rose up in revolt. For days after, I shuffled around the house like a geriatric German shepherd with bad hips. Even my fat hurt.

Clearly, my time on the Dreadmill hadn’t prepared me for actual physical labor. I might be fit enough to walk a couple of miles without keeling over, but I was unprepared for digging and crouching and yanking on stubborn tree roots.

Which brings us to a recent study by the American Council on Exercise. The ACE study encourages older folks to do “functional” exercise that emphasizes moving muscles and joints together in ways that mimic real-life needs, rather than just lifting weights or walking, which use the same isolated muscles over and over.

(Anybody else think it’s more than a coincidence that ACE is also the name of a brand of bandages? Maybe that’s just me.)

The study, done at the University of Wisconsin-La Crosse, used 48 volunteers between the ages of 58 and 78. All already participated in a fitness program because of various health problems related to cheese consumption. (Note to Wisconsin readers: Just kidding about the cheese!)

The researchers randomly assigned participants to a group doing functional exercises or to a control group that stuck with “a traditional exercise program of walking and aerobic dance,” according to an ACE press release. The 12 functional exercises, performed three times a week, included moves such as “wall push-ups, lunge and chop, and squat with diagonal reach.”

At the end of the month-long study, the researchers found that those who went through the functional fitness program showed greater improvements in lower-body strength, upper-body strength, cardio-respiratory endurance, agility, balance and shoulder flexibility than the control group.

Participants in the functional exercise group celebrated their gains by beating up the aerobic dancers. (Kidding again!)

ACE said it was hoped that the study would encourage people to incorporate functional strength training into their workout programs so they can “safely and effectively perform their various activities of daily living.”

Good advice. I plan to try some of these functional exercises to see if they help strengthen my muscles and increase my flexibility. Perhaps they’ll even prepare me to do physical labor, assuming the occasion ever arises again.

For sure, the next time my wife suggests that we transplant a tree, I’m doing the “lunge and chop.”

Wanted: Viagra for my trees

Homeowners don’t need a weatherman to see which way the wind blows. We have trees.

Trees are nature’s own neighborhood amenity, and I like having lots of them around for shade and beauty and visual diversity. I don’t even mind raking leaves in the fall, which is easy for me to say considering that all my current trees aren’t much taller than I am.

In previous houses, my family enjoyed the company of big old elms and towering cottonwoods and one fruitless mulberry that always dropped its yellow leaves all at once. Ka-whump.

We now live in a newish hilltop subdivision (though we don’t look newish) and the trees are undersized. While there are green belts around the edges of the neighborhood, the “street trees” (which sounds like a gang) and regular “yard trees” are young.

My yard trees are palm trees, and they came with the house. We’ve got a couple of fan palms, the type used to decorate public spaces, and they’re hardy as they can be. Practically maintenance-free. But these other ones, I think they’re called queen palms, with long feathery fronds? They are a large pain in my subtropical region. They’re puny and they’re ragtag and they whine and they lean over as if fatigued. (OK, they don’t actually whine. But they would if they could.)

These trees have become the botanical focus of my life. We pay a service to do the lawn. My wife fills the house with beautiful potted plants. My only plant-related job is to keep the palm trees upright. I usually fail.

The problem is that our soil is thick, rocky clay and the palm trees’ shallow root systems can’t penetrate. The palms are like eight-foot-tall celeries, standing on end, their little roots gripping the surface layer.

Poorly anchored and top-heavy, the palms regularly blow over. If left that way, they’ll croak. Pulled upright, they’ll keep right on living, but they can’t support themselves. (Much like teen-agers.)

I’ve used stakes and wire and ropes and staples and you-name-it to keep these trees pointed skyward. I’ll get them arranged, and the wind will change direction, and they all start leaning the other way. Then I’ll put stakes on the other side and tie them up, and get everything so snug, you could pluck that wire like a guitar. The next day, the wind will snap the wires or yank them loose, and all the trees will fall over on their bushy heads.

During storms, I stand at the patio windows, monitoring my wind-whipped trees. I’ve been known to run outside during lulls in rain to quickly adjust a tree. Or add another wire.

Eventually, the trees have so many wires and stakes, they resemble a tribe of tied-down Gullivers. My neighbors think I’m practicing tree bondage. I have to remove everything (while a bored teen-ager holds the tree up), and start over.

Saving the trees has become my strange hobby, and it raises certain questions: Am I crazy? Why don’t I replace the palms with something sturdier? Why not get a professional to stake the palms the right way or replant them? Doesn’t Thick Rocky Clay sound like a boxing movie?

All legitimate questions, but I can’t answer them now. I’ve got to go see which way the wind’s blowing.

Bark, bark everywhere

Our dog's bark is worse than his bite.

The dog, Elvis, has never intentionally bitten anyone, despite the fact that he's equipped with a set of choppers worthy of a crocodile. He rarely raises his voice unless he's provoked by something nefarious like, say, a cat.

When I say "bark," I don't mean bark as in "woof," but bark as in "tree." In particular, I mean shredded tree bark that has become my chief nemesis in life.

In our back yard, shredded bark covers a berm that rises to the base of the tall rear fence. The bark was placed there as a landscaping "statement" by the developers. What they're saying with this statement is this: Nothing much will grow on this steep slope of clay and discarded concrete, so we'll hide it with shredded bark.

Well, that's just fine. Until it rains. Or the wind blows. At times of such unforeseen "acts of God," the bark tends to migrate until the berm is a barren slope surrounded by dunes of relocated bark.

Now factor into this landscaping scheme one large fuzzy dog with full roaming privileges.

You can picture what happens. Elvis goes for a romp and collects dozens of bits of the aforementioned bark on his curly fur. Then he comes indoors and shakes the bark onto the handy light-colored carpet. Where it becomes my problem.

I'm in charge of keeping the floors clean, which has put me in a years-long power struggle with Elvis. Our previous home had a large lawn. There, Elvis saw it as his mission to de-thatch the lawn and bring all the dead grass into the house. I vacuumed up so much dead yellow grass that each time I emptied the vacuum cleaner bag, I netted one entire bale of hay.

At the current house, we don't have the dead grass problem. We have the bark gradually making its way indoors. No matter how clean the house may be, one good shake from Elvis and the place looks like a sawmill.

Muttering vile curses, I vacuum up the bark. Once the bag is full, it goes into the trash. Which means the dog and I are slowly sending all the migrating bark to the dump. This, I'm pretty sure, isn't what the landscapers had in mind.

Here's the killer: Twice in the past year, I've been forced to go to the home improvement store and buy hundreds of pounds of shredded bark to cover up the denuded berm. I've hauled the 50-pound bags up the berm and spread the bark around, getting splinters in my hands and dirt in my shoes. And I've done this with the full knowledge that Elvis will come right behind me and move all that bark right into the house.

Sure, it's insane, but I can find no other solution. Replacing the bark with gravel would be expensive and ugly. A naked berm would look even worse. Keeping Elvis cooped up so he can't reach the bark seems cruel. (Cutting his fur extra-short doesn't work; we've tried it.) And the dog's not going anywhere; he's a more integral part of the family than I am.

So I'll just keep cycling the bark through, with the full recognition that our property is a mere way-station on the journey from store to landfill. I can always pretend it's my hobby.

I'm funny that way. And when I say "funny," I don't mean funny as in "haha," I mean funny as in "barking crazy."

Grass and margaritas

Summer's nearly officially here. That means it's time to experience the Great Outdoors from behind the controls of a lawn mower.

Lawn care is an important component of home ownership. If you want your property to maintain its value, it's imperative that you keep the grounds in pristine condition. This explains the origin of the term "sweat equity."

Yes, friends, it's time to sweat. It's time to mow and edge and fertilize and prune. It's time to spend every waking weekend hour with sweat stinging your eyes and exhaust fumes going up your nose and grass clippings stuck to your socks.

Maintaining a lawn is a form of insanity. We pour precious, expensive water on our grass so it will grow. Then we kill ourselves cutting it every week. Then more water. More mowing. More water. More sweat. You get the picture.

The alternative is xeriscaping, which means using less water and keeping your yard in a natural state. Presuming that anywhere in Nature exists a landscape of uniform gravel dotted with spiny plants, all underlaid with black plastic.

Some of us prefer the illusion of Eden. We want to walk around barefoot. So we opt for the lunacy of grass.

Lawn work can be maddening. A recent example: I set out to attack weeds in my yard. So vigorous was my attack that the head came off the old hoe I was using. I repaired the hoe and got after the weeds again. Then I went to rake up the victims. The head came off the rake. I fixed the rake, cleaned up the weeds. Then I employed the weed-whacker, which promptly ran out of trimmer line. I took this as a sign that it was time to surrender for the day and go indoors for something cool to drink: A margarita or four.

I once had a neighbor who spent all day every day working on his lawn, which was as smooth as a putting green. I couldn't understand why anyone would devote his entire life to maintaining grass. Then I met his wife, and it all became clear. As long as she was indoors, he'd stay outdoors. It was a form of detente.

Most of us, though, don't have the time or the desire to create a perfect lawn. We settle for a yard.

The terms "lawn" and "yard" often are used interchangeably, but they're two very different things. "Lawn" comes from the Latin word for "sweat." On the other hand, "yard" derives from the Anglo-Saxon term for dog poop.

Unclear on which you have? Let's look at the differences:

Lawns tend to be smooth and untouched. Yards have that lived-in look, and often feature a car up on blocks.

Lawns have clean edges. Yards have frontiers.

Lawns have ornaments. Yards have stuff.

Lawns tend to be weed-free and to consist of a single species of grass. Yards are inclusive -- social mixers where all plants are welcome.

Lawns are a consistent shade of green. Yards feature a broader pallette, heavy on browns and tans.

Lawns feel good on your bare feet, but you don't walk on them for fear of bending the grass. In yards, shoes are required, and steel-toed boots are recommended.

If you pay someone to tend your grounds, you probably have a lawn. (Or, you're getting ripped off.)

If you have children and/or a dog, you've probably got a yard. Go out and look at your property. If you find any of the following -- dog bones, soccer balls, old socks, used furniture or appliances, mysterious holes in the ground, marbles, Frisbees, cigar butts, soda bottles, beer bottles, last week's newspapers, last autumn's leaves, dirty dishes, anthills, termite mounds, fallen tree limbs, dandelions, spurge, cactus, sun-bleached toys or dead birds -- then, my friend, you have a yard.

If you'd like to turn your yard into a lawn, then you must work at it. You must attend to details such as dead birds. You must make sure your lawn-care tools are in good working order.

Preparation is the key, and hard, sweaty labor the answer.

A beautiful lawn awaits, Nature's own reward for all your work. But I'd keep a pitcher of margaritas handy, too.

You call this (outdoor) living?

As spring blossoms into summer, we homeowners face the annual Monsoon of Gardening Catalogs.

These catalogs arrive as faithfully as robins in spring, and in greater numbers. Every day, the mailbox is stuffed with slick rags featuring gardening gizmos and patio furniture and whizbang tool-display racks for the garage.

The arrival of warm weather gives people an itch. We want to get outside, spiff things up, turn our weedy, potholed yards into "outdoor living spaces." The catalogs are timed to arrive at the exact moment that homeowners feel that itch.

These catalogs come under scores of different names, but you know which ones I mean. If they're selling rubber gardening clogs, you're in the right place.

We homeowners flip through these catalogs, and say, Whoa, look at this! I never would've thought of disguising my garden hose by hiding it inside a giant plastic tortoise "that looks like cast-bronze statuary!" I should buy one of these for a mere eighty bucks! Then I could waste an entire weekend placing and anchoring it!

Gardening catalogs give us unique insights into our society and the ways we are inspired to ruin our weekends.

For example, somewhere there's apparently a thriving industry in artificial boulders. The catalogs show page after page of "realistic" plastic boulders for use as hose-holders or address markers or hidey-holes for spare keys.

These boulders can't possibly be biodegradable, not if they're made to stand out in the weather, so they'll last forever. You have to wonder what they're going to think, centuries from now, when archeologists dig up fake rocks.

And what will they think about Soil Aerator Sandals? You see these in all the gardening catalogs. The soles are covered by steel spikes over an inch long. "Aerate your lawn -- easy as taking a walk!" The archeologists might assume we turn-of-the-century types were into kinky massages.

(Here's what would happen if I stomped around my lawn with spikes on my feet: I'd hit a tree root or something and be stuck fast. Would my family even answer my cries for help? They'd probably leave me out there as a lawn ornament, a convenient place to hide their spare keys.)

An ad for another item is headlined: "Disguise yourself as a dragonfly, and mosquitoes will leave you alone!" This immediately calls to mind a costume with antennae, diaphanous wings and a rod-like tail. No matter how much you're bothered by mosquitoes, such a get-up might give the wrong impression. ("Disguise yourself as a dragonfly, and the neighbors will leave you alone!")

But no, that's not the invention at all. It's a small electronic repeller you wear on your belt, which "simulates the low-frequency wingbeat sound of the dragonfly, the mosquito's mortal enemy!" Mosquitoes hear the clicking and "they turn tail and leave fast!"

Sounds wonderful. Here's my question: Are dragonflies attracted to this sound? If I use this product, will I be followed everywhere by swarms of aroused dragonflies? I might prefer the occasional mosquito.

Another hot gardening item: The new recoiling water hoses that "put themselves away." The hose looks like a giant green Slinky. Have you ever tried to untangle a Slinky? Get a foot caught in this hose, and you might find yourself tied up tighter than Houdini.

Then there's my favorite item, the "humane" trap for pesky varmints that dare enter your property to sniff your fake boulders. The cage-like trap always is depicted holding a well-groomed live skunk. The skunk looks very annoyed at being captured.

Here's what I always wonder: What do you do next? Once you've humanely captured the live skunk, how do you then get rid of it? When it was running around loose, the skunk was simply a problem. Now that you've caught it, it's become your responsibility. And you've made it mad.

Better to stay indoors in the first place. I've found the best use for all the gardening catalogs: Stack them up and use them as an ottoman. That way, you can stay on the sofa where you belong. And you won't scratch the good furniture with your Soil Aerator Sandals.

Cutting-edge TV

Now, just in time for summer, comes the latest hot new TV destination aimed at sluicing advertising dollars toward an increasingly narrow market share.

That's right, folks, the same people who brought you the 24-hour Shark Channel and the Poetry Channel and the Expensive-Mansions-You-Could-Never-Afford Channel now present the cable network for Everyman: YW, the Yardwork Channel.

Cable viewers tune in to YW for how-to shows and infomercials and "news" programs that feature the latest cutting-edge technology in lawn mowers and power pruners.

YW's programming is targeted toward middle-class homeowners who have their own dreams of someday redoing their home landscapes -- homeowners just like you. And most of our shows include segments featuring actual work being demonstrated. Shoveling and weeding and mowing and lawn-sprinkler repair, all done before your very eyes.

But wait, you say, could it really be that interesting to watch somebody mow a lawn? Won't YW be boring?

To which we say: Haven't you ever seen the Nielsens for golf on TV? Haha, a little cable humor there. But seriously, you'll quickly find that you love our programs. Watching YW, you get the vicarious thrill of home improvement without actually getting up off the couch.

At the Yardwork Channel, we don't talk about recipes or redecorating or hoity-toity crafts projects accomplished with a hot-glue gun. We feature the most difficult home-improvement jobs of all -- the ones out in the yard.

We found these programs were particularly satisfying among our test audiences. Test results show that male viewers will spend hours in front of yardwork programs, particularly if power tools or heavy machinery present an element of danger. Many viewers find it more thrilling to watch an amateur operate a backhoe, for instance, than to view more established programming, such as professional wrestling.

Most of all, our research shows, viewers prefer yardwork programs that show lots of grueling physical labor. And we give you that at YW, around the clock.

Take a look at a sampling of our outstanding programs:

"This Old Yard"

Our flagship show, in which celebrity do-it-yourselfer Bob Vila branches out by going outdoors. Each week, Bob and his crew help some lawn-hungry family redo an entire property. Bob performs this feat of landscape makeover without ever losing the crease in his khakis. 7 p.m. on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

"Ditch"

Each week, Mortimer Haskins and his imported team of highly skilled laborers dig a trench across some willing homeowner's property. Close-up camera work keeps this entry exciting; you can practically smell the sweat. 7:30 p.m. Mondays.

"A Man, a Woman, a Yard"

This reality program takes us inside the Beequish household as newlyweds Melvin and Hannah Beequish of Hardpack, Ill., decide to landscape the yard of their new home. The young lovers encounter numerous obstacles -- bank snafus, lazy contractors, dandelions. In the exciting climax, their marriage is pushed to the brink by an argument over a privet hedge. 9 p.m. Fridays.

"The Scourge of Spurge"

Host Elwood Hammermacherschaefer takes us inside the dark, steamy world of those insidious villains -- weeds -- and gives us the latest updates in the war on this vile enemy. 11 p.m. nightly.

"Property Line Court"

Tough-as-nails judge Winifred Shucker wields her gavel with the full weight of the law as feuding neighbors bring her their disputes over overhanging tree branches and cracked patios. Daily at 3 p.m. and 5 p.m.

"Bay Leaf"

Voluptuous, sweaty, scantily clad lifeguards grow their own herbs. Daily at 10 a.m., 2 p.m., 4 p.m., 6 p.m., 10 p.m. and midnight.

And that's just a sampling. The Yardwork Channel also offers such exciting shows as: "Raking Techniques," "The Doug Gilstrap Story: I Dug My Own Swimming Pool by Hand," "Lawn Vs. Dog," "Bug Zapper II: Return of the Blue Light," "Post Holes," and "Blood Work: Beer and Flagstones."

Call your local cable provider today and tell them you want the Yardwork Channel! Soon, you'll be in front of the set with a beer, tuned to YW, watching some poor slob breaking up concrete with a pickaxe.

Remember our motto here at YW: The only thing more personally rewarding than grueling physical labor is watching somebody else do it.

Lawn jockey

So I was raking leaves in my front yard on a sunny autumn weekday, careful to always face the street when I bent over so the neighbors wouldn't be exposed to plumber's cleavage, when an older gentleman stopped his sports car at the curb and rolled down his window.

He gave me the hard squint, clearly trying to think of a way to say it, and I figured he was just having a man's instinctual difficulty in asking for directions. But what he said was, "Um, do you live around here?"

My first thought: No, buddy, I'm raking somebody else's leaves, just for the fun of it.

Then I realized what he was getting at. Here I am in my swank neighborhood, where most people have trust funds and-or real jobs, raking leaves in the middle of a work day. I'm wearing an old flannel shirt, drug-dealer sunglasses and tattered jeans that I keep hitching up. I don't particularly look like I belong here. This guy thinks I'm the lawn boy.

Now I've got nothing against lawn guys. Most of them probably make more money than I do. It was the gent's assumption that got to me.

I sputtered something like, yeah, this is my house right here. He gave me a dubious smile, then asked his question, and I told him the street he wanted was two blocks over. He waved his thanks and zoomed away, leaving me standing in the yard, frozen in place, pointing like a plaster jockey.

Folks expect a strapping man like myself to be at a job during the week. When they see me doing household business at the bank or the supermarket on a work day, wearing sandals and with my shirttails hanging out, they assume the worst. They think I'm unemployed. Or that I'm a member of the untaxed shadow economy where the main sources of income are petty theft and crack cocaine. Or that there's something wrong with me and any second I might start ranting about government conspiracies and little green men. Or, apparently, that I'm the hired help.

Do other housespouses get this reaction as they go about their daily lives? Do people stare and stammer and avoid the subject of what do you do for a living? Is it just me? Is it my clothes? If I went to the supermarket dressed like Donna Reed, would everyone accept that I worked at home? OK, bad example. A giant, bearded man wearing an apron and heels to the supermarket probably would get a whole different sort of reaction. But you see my point, right? People are conditioned to expect men (and women, for that matter) to work at a regular job on weekdays. They expect suits and ties. They expect to see us in traffic during rush hour, cellular phones pasted to our heads, stress eating us up from the inside.

A househusband, whose performance in the laundry room is as important as the job he does, doesn't fit those expectations. People don't understand that, for us, every day is a chore-filled Saturday.

Of course, one of the main attractions of working at home is not having to wear the suit and tie. But just because I'm in a bathrobe and sweatpants in the middle of the day, does that make me a crazy person? OK, don't answer that. Let me put it another way. Does being a slob automatically equate to lower class citizenship? Is there no room in people's assumptions for househusbandry?

People see a big guy, dressed like Paul Bunyan, walking around in a daze, mumbling to himself about some plot point in a future novel, and they don't think, ah, a literary type, a dreamer. They think: Look, it's the wacko guy who rakes other people's lawns.

Maybe I'm just sending the wrong signals. I guess I could go bohemian, dress in black head-to-toe and sport a beret. But I'm a little too old and fat to play the starving artist and I have a low tolerance for pretense.

I'm planning to make an exception, though. Next time I'm out in the yard, raking leaves, I'm wearing a tuxedo.