GRASS

Not the kind you smoke (I know my terminology is outdated). What I’m saying is marijuana--I mean--not marijuana.

I’ve been sent on different occasions for random drug testing. Cancel your classes and go to personnel to pick up some forms, Jesse Vail, a former professional football coach in the leather helmet days and previous boss of mine, would demand. Personnel, where you go for forms when your boss can never seem to find anything in his office, but will tell you to improve your organizational skills.

I’d play this game with strict adherence to the UAW employee handbook each time. I’d request a state vehicle from the transportation coordinator (besides, why use my own gas?) to travel the three miles down the road to a third party drug-testing agency.

I’m drunk and I need a state car, I’d say.

Excuse me?

I’m high as a kite and need a car so I can pee in a cup.

They’d give me the keys to a car assuming that I was joking and couldn’t possibly be on anything.

But this is not about that kind of weed—it’s about grass—the kind you cut. Seems I’m spending a considerable amount of time pushing a lawn mower across ¾ of an acre. It’s a slight inconvenience, but the exercise is well worth it.

In today’s photo, two gentlemen are leaving the Bayshore Marina, heading for a small island on the outskirts of Wild Fowl Bay. They obviously have some grass of their own . . . . . to cut . . . . . of course.