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We are at the time of year when the buds form on trees, daffodils appear and neighbors emerge from the bleak winter into longer days of sunshine and blue sky.
It’s a glorious time! We’ve slogged through the dark months exactly for this reprieve!
However, what spring also brings is a confrontation with Oregon’s worst predators.
I know — we don’t have much cause to complain. What I love about the Beaver State is how mild and gentle it is. You don’t have to shovel rain. You can walk barefoot in the grass without worrying about fire ants attacking your toes. Once, when my kids were little and we lived in Texas, my 5-year-old came in the front door and shouted, “Mom, there’s a few snakes on the front porch!”
I went out and discovered a family of deadly coral snakes slithering along the cement. So that was fun.
During our years in Texas, we had scorpions nest in our shoes and drop from the ceiling at mealtime. We also encountered the Giant Desert Centipede, which grows to a foot long, sports a bright red head and yellow legs and delivers a sting like a hornet.
I went on “vacation” to Alaska and discovered an almost-paralyzing fear of getting eaten alive. Alaska has 30,000 grizzly bears. I was certain that at any moment, one of them would take my face off. I hiked with so many jingle bells, I might as well have been Santa’s sleigh. But bells only scare off bears. They do not intimidate moose, who are capable of charging with a full rack of dagger-like antlers at 35 mph and covering 50 yards in just three seconds.
Given the choice between getting skewered or disemboweled, I hightailed it back to Oregon as quickly as I could. Because we don’t have the big mean guys. Yes, there are black bears, but they like trash cans more than humans. The shy mountain lion almost always keeps to itself.
Still, we can’t fool ourselves into thinking we don’t have predators. In fact, we have a relentless apex predator. It may not be as violent as a grizzly, but it will consume your life if you aren’t vigilant.
That predator is moss.
Yes, moss. Hear me out: there are a few runners up, and I’ve considered them all. Other contenders include garden snails, mushrooms and seasonal allergies, but I stand by my assessment. Moss is the enemy of every roof, driveway, deck and shaded slice of grass.
Each spring, I emerge from the long tunnel of winter to find that moss has colonized much of my yard, choked the lawn and crept across the sport court.
If you don’t think moss is as treacherous as a grizzly, you haven’t walked on a moss-coated patio after it rains. Mine gets so slick we could hold curling matches.
Moss is insidious precisely because it seems so innocent. In nature, its florid green coat is something to behold, climbing trees and blanketing our lush forests. It’s the stuff of poetry and postcards!
I call it nature’s carpet.
Except, there’s a place for carpet, and it’s not on my roof. It’s in my living room. I don’t want carpet climbing under the flashing, compromising the tight seal between my indoor and outdoor life.
The only way to really fight the moss is to bring out the big guns, and by guns I mean the pressure washer. I didn’t even know what a pressure washer was before we lived in Oregon, but in the last decade, we’ve burned through three.
There is a natural order to how chores are done in our family. At 10 years old, our kids learn to mow the lawn. At 10 years old and one day, they learn to operate the pressure washer.
Every year we draw straws to see who gets to be the lucky soul to battle the moss. And it is a fearsome battle. The person tasked with fighting the moss inevitably comes away covered head to toe in grime.
I call that nature’s kiss.
Still, even with the collateral damage, the pressure washer is a miracle invention. It’s oddly satisfying to watch the driveway shed its mossy layer and reemerge. It’s not unlike stepping outside the house in March and finding you can take a walk in shirtsleeves. The best days are ahead!
Of course, I know that the moss will keep coming back, year after year. I should have known when we bought a house on Moss Street. We found the name so charming. Now I realize it was a warning.
With the odds against me, all I can do is hold the line. And be grateful that as relentless as moss can be, at least it will never want to eat me for lunch.