I'VE BEEN TRYING to "weed and seed" the lawn for the past month. I need two non-rainy days after mowing and another two non-rainy days after laying down the pellets.

Because I cut the grass on Sunday, that means I can't do this until Wednesday, which means it has to stay clear until Friday. At this time of year in the Northeast U.S., I think it's asking too much. I've resorted to pulling the hundreds of dandelions the old-fashioned way: with a tool while kneeling down.

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My mother loved overcast and rainy days. Of course, with four males in the house, she never had to "weed and seed."

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It just occurred to me that in all of my years growing up, I never remember seeing my dad ever cut the grass. Not one time. I'm sure that he must have. When we lived in California, one summer he and my oldest brother, Pat, cut down the weeds on the hillside with this scary-looking tool.

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I remember cutting the grass when I was young – maybe six or seven, and I was using an old rotary blade mower. It seemed to take a long time. I think my dad paid me a quarter, because I remember that the guy on the front looked really cool. It was the first time I was aware of money, although I didn't understand its value. I still don't.

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I read or heard that Pittsburgh has the second fewest sunny days among major U.S. cities. Perhaps it explains why we ended up in Pittsburgh. Or maybe just coincidence

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The title of today's entry is from a Sesame Street song. We never watched Sesame Street when we were little. And we didn't watch Mr. Rogers, because my mother thought he was a little too wussy for boys. She didn't want her boys to grow up as emotional weaklings. She probably wanted them to be more like her own father. Plus, the '50s and '60s weren't the years when men showed their sensitive side – at least not all that often.

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Some people believe there is no such thing as coincidence. That all things happen for a reason. Some would call it fate. Others would call it destiny. Maybe it's the same thing.

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My brother and I had a routine when we were in high school. After school, we came home and watched an episode of Gilligan's Island before heading out to deliver our newspapers.

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The last time I studied was in the ninth grade. I confess that I didn't even study in college. No 6 p.m. to 4 a.m. cram sessions for me. I had better things to do. Like sleep. I graduated college with a 3.51 GPA. Don't try this at home.

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I used to be really good at trigonometry. I was so good that in college I missed only one question the entire semester. I fell asleep a lot in French.

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I really loved my political science class in college but hated the tests. The reason was that the professor had trouble seeing because of a World War II injury, so all of his tests were multiple choice. And the choices would be something like, "What date did such and such happen: a) Aug. 3, 1939; b) Aug. 5, 1939; c) Aug. 7, 1939; and d) Aug. 8, 1939.

I suppose if I studied I would have been able to remember such useless minutiae.

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I have time to reflect on all of this because it's raining again today.
 

 
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