Grassy lawn patch crossword

Hey all, it’s me Frank Jones again. I wrote that post a while ago about why you shouldn’t be a paranormal investigator and a lot of you liked it. Since settling into my hideaway in the mountains, life has become quiet and I thought about checking in. The plague hit us like nothing and now that everyone is wanting to travel again, I thought to say hi. I want to say thanks to all of you who commented and gave me those weird pointy thingies this social media does. Some of you even figured out my post office box address and sent me letters. I appreciate it (and don’t do it again).
The common strain among your posts was wanting to know if I had ever encountered other things as an auditor. Of course I have but I have been reluctant to tell you because I don’t want to shine some sort of light on all of it or make it sound like some romantic adventure. It’s “pissing yourself” fear all wrapped up in a waking nightmare with a side of gory terror. I am one of the few who actually made it to retirement…if that’s what you could call this life I’m living now.
But, I have nothing else to do really. Carl only visits once in a while when he’s passing through and I cannot risk any other sort of company knowing I’ve pissed off a lot of people…and things. So, I’m back on this internet board and sharing. So many are curious, I thought maybe another story can scare you all straight. This was the first time complacency almost got me and another killed.
This story takes place somewhere in the 90s in a small New England town. It was one of those places nestled along the banks of a serene river, historic brick buildings line the winding streets, their facades adorned with weathered signs that hint at the town's seafaring heritage. A place where everything smelled like either the ocean or decaying fish. I’m not going to specifically name the town to protect the young lady that may still be living there but in the heart of the town, there’s a renowned drawbridge which stands as a testament to the place’s affinity for water. Its ancient mechanisms creak and groan when allowing vessels to pass through the calm waterway. It also had some of the best outdoor markets I had a chance to stop and check out.
I didn’t pass through this part of the country that often as my boss preferred me to do the long hauls across the country but there was a dead haul nobody wanted.I took it cause I wanted a change of scenery. I was already working as an auditor and part of a loose alliance of others who investigated and dealt with any weird things. I actually had a few monsters under my belt. I honestly had the foolhardy idea that I could handle anything out there. God, I was an idiot.
The supernatural never crossed my mind until that evening, stopping to fuel up my red 1992 Peterbilt 379 and paying for the gas with the attendant and restocking up on those beef jerky sticks and coffee.
That was when I noticed her. She was a young woman about in her mid 30s looking like one of the corporate types with the short hair cut and business suit. I would have not paid her any mind if it wasn’t for the touch of apprehension on her face as she talked on one of those new fangled bright yellow Nokia cellphones. Soft strands of chestnut hair framed her face, their gentle sway moving as she glanced around while talking on the phone. As I observed her, I couldn't help but notice the way her fingers trembled slightly, when trying to get money out of her pocket. I’ve seen that type of fear before. So, like a creep, I eavesdropped on her call.
“Yes, it happened again,” she had said as the nickels finally made it to the counter to pay for her snacks. “I could have sworn there was something outside the window near the edge of the forest….no, of course the security cameras didn’t pick up anything. They’re cheap. Ronald was a skinflint when it came to things like this. Hope he’s rotting in hell wherever he is.”
My mind began to drift away, more annoyed I couldn’t get a move on it. It sounded like a problem for the police and if anything, I was gonna tell her that. It was what she said next that made me stop and brought back the reality of the world.
“Yeah. like nine or ten feet tall. I’m thinking kids are playing around with scarecrows or something. Won’t come from the edge of the forest and when I check, I can see foot impressions and stuff. I already put in a call to the cops. They found nothing.“
“Did it sway a bit and its eyes seem to glint like a cats or owl?” I asked without thinking.
The look I got from both her and the gas attendant made me realize what I had done. Well, too late now.
“I’ll call you back,” she said quickly, eyeing me as she hung up the phone and slipped it back into her purse.
“You need me to walk you to your car, ma’am?” the attendant asked, staring at me.
Of course, I forgot that The Truck Stop Killer had only been arrested a few years before.
“I’m fine, thank you,” she said, quickly gathering her stuff and making for the door. I slapped the one hundred and seventy bucks on the counter to pay for my diesel guzzler ignoring the change and followed her out but making sure to not move in a way that caused the teenager in the station to call the cops.
“Ma’am,” I called out to her and she turned to me while hurrying up her pace.
“I’ve got pepper spray. Stay away from me.”
“The thing in the woods. You could have sworn you smelled fresh dirt like mulch and it seemed to sway back and forth like it could not keep its balance.” I threw it out there in desperation.
She froze and turned to look at me. Eying me up and down as I kept my distance and angled to head towards my truck.
“How do you know?”
“I…uh…dealt with something like that before. On a job in Canada.”
“Who are you?” she asked, looking at my faded shirt and company logo. “A trucker?”
“I moonlight as a problem solver. Like an auditor of sorts.”
“Who is it?” she demanded, eyes still affixed to me and hand in her purse.
“Better question is ‘what is it?’,” I answered.
I have learned to pick up on the contempt and disbelief from people who hadn’t seen what I have. I was already being dismissed as a whack job.
“You have tracks on your porch you have written off as animals, especially if you own a dog. If you did own a dog, it’s missing. Cops told you it ran away. You got a garden?”
“Yes,” the certainty had started to leave her voice. “A walled garden.”
“And anytime you’re in there, you feel like you’re being watched.”
At that, her hand came out of her purse empty and she approached me with the fear I had seen in her eyes now on her face.
“How did you know?”
“I’d rather not explain out here,” I said sheepishly running my hand through my sandy brown hair that only started getting flecks of gray. “But you got a…pest problem.”
“And you can do something about it? I’ve had exterminators, cops, nature lovers…even a priest.”
“None of those won’t do you any good and I don’t want to scare ya but it’s more active which is not a good sign.”
For a few moments, I could see the indecision in her eyes. The desperate want to dismiss me as a lunatic but whatever she had heard or seen won over.
“Fine. You can follow me to the house.”
“Mind if I hitch a ride?”
The woman started but then looked at my truck. “Promise. I mean you no harm. I really think you’re in danger.”
That was when I found her name was Isabelle Walker.
We left my truck in long-term parking after she told the attendant that I was a long lost relative and that’s why the change of demeanor. I don’t know if he believed her but at that point, I don’t think he cared. I left my truck with its metallic frame standing tall and proud amidst the rows of other vehicles.
I did not realize how desperate this woman was until we got going on the road. I had loaded myself in the passenger seat after pulling out my military backpack from the war which I also used for my auditing services and tried to look as harmless as a man of my stature could.
For the first fifteen minutes of the drive, her focus was on the lonely road, those beautiful eyes darting to me anytime I shifted my weight. I didn’t want to scare her so it was her that spoke first.
“What is it?”
“I really don’t know but the people in my profession call it a Bone Walker.”
The nose crinkled in disbelief.
“Halloween is not for a few more months, Mister…”
“Jones. Frank Jones.”
The James Bond reference caused her to snort in amusement.
“I don’t know what to tell ya, ma’am, except I’ve dealt with some pretty scary things out there. Normally I’m never this forward as most people try to call the cops on me or dismiss me as a lunatic. I mean, I could be a lunatic but I know what I’ve seen.”
“And that is…?”
“You know. Ghosts, vampires, werewolves. They’re real. They’re not common but real nevertheless.”
“Really?”
There was still the disbelief in Isabelle’s voice but I grew to ignore things like this.
“Sure. I mean, think of all the things you experienced and be open to alternate answers.”
Isabelle was quiet for a few minutes and then sighed. “Either you are telling the truth or you're the biggest liar and I’m a fool that’s not going to live through this night.”
“I promise,” I tried to reassure her. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
After a few more minutes and off the main highway, we approached her home. The large house stood resolute amidst the dense, ancient forest, its weathered exterior a testament to the passing of time. It was a grand structure, its imposing presence commanding attention. The sprawling estate exuded an air of mystery and faded grandeur, as if it held stories whispered through generations.
As we pulled in, the main house loomed before me, its facade adorned with intricate woodwork and worn stone. Ivy crept along the walls, weaving an emerald tapestry that hinted at the passage of years. The windows, framed by elegant yet slightly cracked panes, stared out into the world with a mixture of curiosity and melancholy.
To the side, a large shed stood detached from the main house, its weathered boards echoing tales of forgotten tools and lost endeavors. The wooden structure sagged under the weight of time, its roof covered in a patchwork quilt of moss. Inside, shadows danced amidst remnants of a bygone era, rusty equipment and dusty shelves attesting to the once-bustling activity that had long since ceased.
Not far from the shed, a family cemetery nestled amongst the ancient trees. Tombstones, adorned with intricate carvings and weathered inscriptions, dotted the landscape. The hallowed ground exuded a solemn tranquility, as if time stood still in reverence for those who rested eternally in its embrace. Wisps of fog clung to the grassy knolls, lending an ethereal quality to the sacred space.
At the far end of the property, an old walled garden stood as a testament to the house's former splendor. Once vibrant and lush, the garden now appeared overgrown and untamed. Stone paths meandered through a sea of tangled foliage, leading to hidden nooks and forgotten corners. Dilapidated stone benches, adorned with intricate carvings, sat scattered throughout the garden, silent witnesses to a time when laughter and conversation filled the air.
As I stood amidst the silence of the forest, the house, shed, cemetery, and walled garden formed a tapestry of history and mystery. They were a testament to the ebb and flow of life, the remnants of a bygone era that clung to the present. Within their weathered walls, secrets whispered and memories danced, waiting to be discovered by those who dared to venture into their enigmatic embrace.
“Great place to be haunted, huh?” she said with sarcasm. “My ex left it to me in the divorce. Was only going to be here long enough to sell it but no one wants it and my job wants me to move to this state anyway.”
“Where are you originally from?”
“California.”
“So, this is definitely a change of scenery for you,”
Isabelle only hummed back at me as she fumbled for her keys in the dying light of evening. I pulled my backpack closer to me as my eyes scanned the treeline where the shadows had begun to deepen. Nothing stood out against the silhouettes of ancient trees which was a good sign. I wasn’t too late.
Stepping through the weathered front door, I entered the interior of the old house, greeted by a mix of nostalgia and faded elegance. The air carried a hint of mustiness, a reminder of the countless years the house had to have witnessed. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light filtering through the stained-glass windows, I could make out the clash between old decor and the modern furniture Isabelle had bought.
The foyer, adorned with a worn, threadbare rug. The walls, once adorned with portraits and intricate wallpaper, now bore the markings of time's passage. The wooden banister of the grand staircase, polished with use, creaked softly under my touch as we made our way towards the living room.
Moving further into the house, I found myself in a spacious living room. Large, ornate windows which would have allowed slivers of daylight to filter through the heavy velvet curtains. The walls were adorned with faded wallpaper. An aged fireplace, its stone mantle adorned with trinkets and old photographs, served as the heart of the room.
“You want some coffee?” Isabelle asked, throwing her keys on to the coffee table. I sat down on her couch and dropped my backpack on it with a clunk.
“Sure.”
“Sugar?”
“A lot.”
The kitchen light clicked on and I heard her moving about setting up the coffee pot. The adrenalin was now pumping through me as my mind raced. I’m not going to go into a lot of detail on what a Bone Walker is but it’s a creature that usually haunts the western coast. It being so far out east was strange. I pulled out my old gun bag and unrolled it. My Stevens Model 520-30 “Trench” shotgun was the first thing I reached for as I popped open the internal pouch holding he high flash shells I was glad I packed. It was the startled sound from Isabelle that made me quickly look up.
She stood there with my coffee, eyes locked on the shotgun in my hand. I slowly held up one of the cartridges I was planning to load.
“Flash powder shotgun shells. No load. Just makes a loud noise and a bright white light. What we’re facing lives in the shadows and hates light…normally,” I had heard stories that they could strike in the day but it was extremely rare. She didn’t need to know that.
“Oh,” was her quiet response. “Do…do I need a gun?”
“You know how to use one?”
“No.”
“Then it’ll do more harm than good. You got any flashlights?”
Isabelle nodded mutely, the gravity of the situation sinking in at the array of weapons and items in my pack laid out in front of her.
“Go get them.”
While she was gone, I quickly unloaded the silver bullets out of my Makarov pistol (a gift from a Viet Cong officer and a story for another time) and placed normal 9mm rounds in the clip. I had it holstered under my jacket with the two back up clips when she returned with three cheap flashlights.
“One in your hand and one in your pocket.”
“Why?”
“In case you drop the one you are holding.”
The woman obeyed silently.
As night fell quickly around us, I slung my shotgun over my shoulder and with Isabelle close, we made our way upstairs. There were tell tale signs I needed to check as the only advantage I had over this thing was the fact it stuck to a pattern. If it was at the stage I thought it was, there would be signs.
“Which room is yours?” I asked.
Isabelle pointed to a door down the hallway across from a large window. Approaching it, I quickly shined my flashlight at the mahogany door frame. It was the glint that caught my eye. Deep gouges in the wood.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“Claw marks,” I responded. There was no use sugar coating anything now.
“This thing was in my house?” Isabelle said horrified.
“For the last few weeks now,” I said, my nose picking up the faint odor of dirt and mud.
“Why didn’t it attack me then?”
“It wasn’t time.”
“What?”
Talking was going to be the only thing to keep her focused. I had felt the world shift a bit as night fell and I needed her not to panic.
“Bone Walkers are ritualistic creatures. They are very choosy over their prey. It can take a month or two before they move in. That’s why they are so hard to catch.”
“Criteria? Like what?”
“We don’t know.”
That was the honest truth. The only reason we knew their existence and patterns was thanks to blind luck and people surviving their encounters. I showed my light around looking for other signs. Discolored stains in the corners where shadows would naturally form, healthy moss and mold that shouldn’t be there. I found a patch around her bed. She did not notice and I did not want to tell her that it probably stood over her through the night watching her sleep. The sooner I buried this thing, the better.
“Frank!”
There was a trill of terror in Isabelle’s voice and I immediately looked to where she was. The woman was standing by her bedroom window staring out at something. I quickly moved and spotted what she saw. In the forest, at the edge of the shadow cast by the moonlight was an almost, imperceptible form. It stood nine feet, hunched over like a broken scarecrow, its owl like eyes staring back at us.
“Shit,” I muttered. Thank god we had turned on the lights as we went.
It was the flash of light and the crack of thunder that heralded the arrival of the storm. The lights of this old houses flickered which caused my belly to flop a few times. My brain was on fire as I glanced back from the lightbulb to where the creature was and found it had vanished.
“Where did it go?”
I did not have time to explain as another crack of lightning caused the lights to dim. I grabbed Isabelle roughly by the arm and yanked her back down the hallway towards the living room where I had left my stuff. We barely made it to the living room when the lights dimmed low. I grasped the glow sticks out of the bag, cracked a handful and scattered them about, their bright yellow light beginning to glow. The power then went out bathing us only in the eerie glow of the emergency lighting.
As we waited in breathless anticipation, the storm struck, its wrath manifesting in torrential rain. The mansion seemed to respond, succumbing to a power outage that plunged us into an abyss of blackness only moments before.
A trill of terror coursed through me. I knew this Bone Walker thrived in darkness, using it as a cloak to conceal its malevolence. We auditors were not sure if it actually teleported or it preferred to move in pitch darkness. I just knew that the black was our biggest threat.
For a few moments, we could only hear the ragged breathing of the two of us being drowned out by the pounding rain against shingle and glass. Isabelle had wound her hand into my jacket pocket and was gripping it tightly, I could feel her shaking with terror. I kept my shotgun gripped tightly in my hand listening for the tell tale sound of its arrival.
It was the movement out of the corner of my eye and the fact her grip got tighter on my jacket. I swiftly turned on my high-powered flashlight as I spun around and the brilliant beam pierced the obscure corner of the room. No matter what I had read or seen before did not prepare me for what I saw.
It stood there in the corner, its eight foot height engulfing that section of the house. My eyes strained as it appeared the thing was struggling to stay in focus. Its arms were too long for its body, spindly and almost to the floor while the legs appeared backwards giving it a strange forward leaning look. It wore a hunter’s long coat and trousers but through the rips and tears I could make out something squirming and moving underneath. The air filled with the stench of decaying plants and diseased vegetation. Its face was covered with what looked like the remnants of a cheap bandanna but its owl-like eyes gleaned back with malevolence.
Isabelle whimpered, her fear palpable in the room and the Bone Walker lunged toward us. Even though my fear was ripping through me like an unstoppable train, I had the sense to pull the trigger of my shotgun aimed in its direction. The flash and resounding roar painted the entire room in a brilliant black and white shadow causing every corner and edge to appear thick and vivid. The creature screamed and fell to the side into the shadow not illuminated by the weapon’s fire.
Isabelle had thrown herself on the couch and was huddled there, trembling with terror, while I moved quickly to crack a few more glow sticks and toss them into the dark corners of the room. In one, I saw its foot recoil back into the kitchen where it was darker than night itself. This was quicker than I had anticipated. The plans I had been formulating on the drive were no longer viable. I wanted to lure it to where I controlled the battlefield but that was not an option anymore. This had become a cat and mouse game and I knew this was with a predator I could not even hope to understand and had years to hone.
Out of the kitchen again this thing charged forward, relentless in its pursuit, it was trying to find a way around my light barrier which only appeared to slow it down. With shaking hands, I fired several more rounds, each blast forcing the creature to retreat and the girl to scream in terror. As soon as it retreated to a dark part of the house, I turned to where the woman of the house had been. To my horror, Isabelle's fear had gotten the best of her. In that moment of panic, she darted from the safety of the light, towards the hallway and the door outside.
“Isabelle! Stop!” I yelled trying to command her back with my voice but I doubted she heard me. Between the abject horror and the relentless rain, she was going to take her chance. A chance I knew she did not have.
I only took a step when I sensed it. The musty smell of an organic landfill overwhelmed me as the form silently darted past me, its long arm clobbering me up the side of the head. The world spun as pain burst through my brain. I felt the world tilt and fall heavily to the ground, flashlight and shotgun falling away.
As I slipped in and out of consciousness, I knew I was a sitting duck for this thing. There was no way for me to stop it from ripping me to shreds like some of the corpses I had seen. As I blinked, I came to my senses and realized I was alone. How long I had actually been on the ground, I did not know.
I sat up, my head pounding and I could see the door hanging open, the wind slamming the door on its hinges and the rain soaking the hallway floor. Struggling, I found my flashlight and gun and pulled myself together.
There was a slim chance that Isabelle was still alive. I had to think. Where would it go? I ran all the stories I could think of and then it hit me. The garden. The walled garden.
I charged into the rain-soaked night. I sprinted toward the enclosed garden at the edge of the property. As I grew closer, I saw that the rusted door was open and hope flickered in my soul. As I came to a stop, I brought my flashlight up again with my shotgun and saw it.
This creature stood there in the middle of the overgrown garden, its massive clawed hand wrapped around Isabelle’s chest and holding her up. Out from under its bandanna mask, putrid vines had appeared and led up to Isabelle’s face where they were forcing their way down her throat and up her nose. I could see the wide terror in her eyes as vines were snaking their way around her waist and I did not want to think about what they were planning to do.
I brought up the shotgun again and fired. Knowing that I had distance, the flash of light caught the creature by surprise. It shrieked as it fell back. Trying desperately not to release its prey. I did not hesitate to grab the machete at my side and hack at its arm until Isabelle fell down free of it.
It’s claw swiped at me striking me on the leg and easily tearing through my pants leaving bloody lacerations but I put the weapon point blank and fired another round. I do not know if it was the flash, the combination of the creature, or that the almighty above was looking out for me, but the creature caught ablaze from the spark.
It fell back swinging wildly as the fire spread unnaturally fast catching the plants around it on fire. Within a matter of seconds, the walled garden had become ablaze with the bone walker in the center. As I ripped the vines out of Isabelle’s mouth and dragged her towards the door, I looked up to see those owl-like eyes looking at me with such abject hatred that the look stick with me today.
I honestly don’t know how we survived. I had helped Isabelle to her porch and we both passed out against our will from the sheer terror and exhaustion. We were awoken by the sound of a siren. The lights had come back on sometime in our sleep and the rain had drifted off to a comforting drizzle. The fire was still raging in the garden but contained by the ancient walls. At least two fire trucks, an ambulance and cops were flying up the private road towards us.
This entire hunt had been ill-planned and stupid. I knew it. As the cops approached with their hand on their pistols, I knew that I had allowed my own ego to get in the way. I should have taken Isabelle somewhere else until I had done a proper reconnaissance. I shouldn’t have taken her home where it was waiting. And now, the cops were looking at two thoroughly soaked humans, one a trucker with a wound and a gun and a young lady in distress. I was pretty sure I was going to go to jail.
“Isabelle?” One of the cops and his voice caused her to sit up, relief washing over her.
“Derek!” she wailed. “We were attacked! In the garden!”
Another two cops that had arrived had taken off in that direction while Derek helped the girl up and took her towards the ambulance. The other cop with a comically large mustache looked at me with keen eyes, his hand still on his pistol, sergeant stripes glowing in the light.
“Attacked?”
“Yeah,” I said, sitting up slowly and keeping my hand away from the shotgun and trying not to show the one under my jacket. “Someone came after Mrs. Walker. They were in the garden.”
The cop watched me closely but there seemed to be a recognition in his eyes.
“You by any chance Frank Jones?”
My heart jumped and I must have looked startled as the cop’s face broke into a smile. To my relief, his hand fell away from his holstered sidearm.
“I’ll take that for a yes. My guess is you don’t remember me. Clay Wilson. Santa Fe PD, about six years ago. You helped my partner with a...problem. Nellie Nelson?”
I knew the name but the face escaped me.
“She told me you helped her audit a police union building.”
“Ah, yes,” I said, remembering dealing with the wraith and the twinge in my right arm from it’s bite.
The cop looked towards the fire that was slowly being put out by the fire fighters.
“Any chance this will be one of your audits?”
“Yeah.”
He seemed to think for a few minutes and then nodded.
“Then I think you need to grab that shotgun of yours and hitch a ride with me before too many people ask questions. Whatcha think?”
I nodded. I was not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. I collected my stuff quickly from the living room and made my way back out where he was waiting. As I limped with the cop to his car, I looked towards Isabelle who was being held by the other. She gave me a look of thankfulness as the cop looked at his partner with confusion.
“Her brother’s got her,” Clay said, opening the back door for me. I was not gonna argue or fight. If he took me to jail or not.
And that was it. My leg was not as bad off as I thought and wrapped it in the back of the police car. Clay only asked where I wanted to go and he took me back to my truck. With that time, I was back on the road with that small town in the rear view mirror.
I never did find out what happened to Isabelle after that, if another creature came looking for her or if she had a chance to live in peace. I just knew that we both barely made it out alive and that was due to my own stupidity. I was furious with myself for weeks after that and told myself I wouldn’t put another person in jeopardy like that again. At least, despite my idiocy, another life was saved and another monster was put in the ground...I hoped. I never did find out if they found a body.

Recently got a new DCMWSP255 2x20V Max self-propelled mower with Flexvolt 12Ah batteries.
My lawn was in a bit of disrepair, a bit patchy but overgrown overall. The more lush patches were about 3', so I went over the entire yard with a string trimmer to bring it down to about 6" before running the mower over it.
I'm not sure if maybe the mower or batteries I got are defective, or if this is expected behavior with overgrowth, but any time I hit a particularly lush patch of grass the mower would shut off. I charged the batteries fully, and double checked them with the built-in before starting, and after it shut off a couple times.
I installed the side-chute, batteries, plastic key, pressed and held the power button, pulled back the starter bar and kept held tight, released the power button, then used the self-propelling lever to move around.
If I raised it on its back wheels at about a 30-degree angle for one pass, then normally for the next, it wouldn't turn itself off. Seemed the issue was directly related to the grass height/thickness.
Is this expected, or could the mower be defective? I wasn't sure if this could be some kind of safety feature, or just because the grass slowed the motor enough to stop it or something?

Out late last night and the lights in the suburbs were almost nonexistent. Stepping into a grassy patch near the sidewalk there was large and deep stagnant puddle pond that I didn't see but accidently went swimming in up to my knees.
Who knows what was in it and when we shined lights on it it was beyond nasty. What's the best way to clean them on the inside?
They are the standard modern made in Asia 1460's smooth leather.
I really don't want to see them go and hope they aren't ruined, thanks ahead of time for any insight 🥲.

tldr - family inherited a condo in bad shape, different opinions on whether to renovate, have a plan to get outside feedback, all thoughts or opinions welcome
My family inherited a 1bd/1.5ba condo from my brother in Charlotte, NC. 50% ownership is my mom and 12.5% each for 4 siblings. We all live, at minimum, a 2 hour drive away. We have no interest in being remote landlords so are looking to sell.
The place is not in great shape. Old carpet with cigarette burns, stale cigarette stench, stains on walls, 2' long drywall crack in one wall, multiple broken light fixtures, broken toilet, broken dishwasher, broken refrigerator, original kitchen cabinets / counters / floor (from the early 80s), original bathrooms, not great landscaping on the small patch of lawn in front of the unit and a dirty (but easily power washable) back porch.
Comps are $185,000 for a fully renovated / modern unit. 3 nearly identical units have sold within the last year at that price. A local real estate investor (friend of a friend) walked through and offered $150K for the unit. We told him we'd get back to him but are in no hurry to do so.
My mom is getting very excited about renovating the place to make it "sellable". She's 80 years old and would like to hire local contractors to do all the work while living in the unit and supervising the work being done. She has made a number of suggestions including painting the interior, replacing the countertops, replacing the cabinet doors, replacing the appliances, etc. Basically fix everything I listed above and then some.
I'm of the opinion that we should sell it as-is. I see any renovations as a speculative investment with no guarantee of return. Especially considering that we won't be doing any of the work ourselves and will have to pay contractors for everything.
Also, the fact that my mom would be the point person does not give me much confidence as it is not exactly uncommon for contractors to fleece sweet, trusting, little old ladies. I'm also not confident that her aesthetic sense would line up well with a potential buyer.
The current plans are to 1) get an appraisal of the unit as-is and 2) reach out to the agents on both sides of the recent comp transactions to get their advice on the cost / value of any renovations. From there we decide what to do wrt renovations and sale.
Are these plans reasonable? Am I missing anything?

Hi all,
I've ton a bunch of reading here and on other forums on how to control common bermudagrass that's invading a hybrid (sodded) bermudagrass lawn. What I've gathered is that it is very tough to do.
If attempting it though, the best practices seem to be:

• Roundup / glyphosphate big patches
• Hand pull where possible
• Mow as low as possible
• PGR + low mowing may help suppress
• Tenacity + Simazine may suppress, or at least stress common more than hybrid (based on a lawn journal I read here: https://www.thelawnforum.com/threads/hungrysoutherner-tifgrand-lawn-journal-2021.10574/#post-172061)

​
..am I missing anything? Does anyone have any success stories or additional tips to share?
For context on my personal situation: my new house was sodded by builders last year with what I believe is Tif419, but I think there may have been existing common bermuda here prior because its popping up everywhere and has taken over a couple sections of my yard. I just nuked the big patches with glypho, but am going to attempt to control the rest and help the Tif win.

Wondering what grass seeds people use to improve their lawns - either to regrow barren patches or overseed. I imagine that many people will say that it's all.much of a muchness (mulchness?) and it's more about preparation etc. I don't have any machines etc nor have the inclination to spend ages preparing the soil, just raking, getting the soil ready and sowing.

1
We underestimate the trials the dead have gone through.
This obvious mistake leads to avoidable missteps in life. It is still all too common.
When my Grandfather passed away, I inherited a house in the mountains. The view was breathtaking. It had a sweeping vista of infinite pine trees. The place was nowhere near as large as the properties surrounding it.
It was a summer home for him and my Grandma. The interior of it contained many of his items. This included tobacco pipes, cabinets of obscure teas, and cupboards of whiskey bottles.
One Saturday evening I went through the attic and found a dozen stacks of boxes. The majority of them remained unlabeled. Several contained pulp paperbacks and stacks of old photos. Towards the end of his life, he gave up his old pastimes of hunting and fishing. He stayed at home and watched old game shows instead.
I tried to clean the roof space in one day. I found myself unable to complete it before tiring and going to bed.
The next morning I resumed the activity. It was no longer about trying to declutter the area and fill it with my own possessions. It was now a way to learn more about the man.
All I knew about his reputation was how he had served in World War II. My family told me how he was as short on words as he was on patience.
I found an old newspaper article, dated 1983. There were other period pieces around it. The topics varied. This included the US invasion of Grenada and the debut of Cabbage Patch Kids dolls. A device known as the mobile phone received a mention.
Yet what caught my attention was the first piece. I brushed aside cobwebs to find it buried underneath a pile of cardboard with burnt edges.
The picture was of my Grandfather, Roy Davies. He held a check for fifty thousand dollars. This was an amount I later found out equaled to one hundred and fifty two thousand in today’s money. The mystery of how he could afford the place he gave me was no longer one worth pondering.
The wall behind him had an illustration of a ramshackle house on a hill. The title of the write-up was NORTHERN CALIFORNIA MAN WINS IN THE PILOT FOR NEW SHOW ‘THE TRIANGLE GAME.’
I read the five hundred word account. It detailed how he flew to Los Angeles to be a participant in an allegedly syndicated program. There were two other people he competed against. The editorial feature did not go into detail about what the goal of the game was. How to win or get disqualified was unknown to me. Still Still, my Grandfather walked out a much richer man before he flew back home.
It did mention the couple he played against, a man called James Grover and a woman named Daisy Francis.
I flipped the article. I found were words written in orange ink with a marker on the back, CC ENVELOPE EXIT.
I searched online for the triangle game. I found variations on the pastime ‘I Spy’ first. Players would spot triangular items in their immediate vicinity. I discovered a few board games, along with IQ-related quizzes.
No information was available about a television broadcast.
2
It took almost a month of research to find where James Grover lived.
I managed to find his house by paying for a background checking website. He had gotten a criminal charge for running a red light in front of a cop. Otherwise his record was clean. That single infraction allowed me to find him since it put him in that specific database.
I stood outside his red brick house in a suburb. It was a Wednesday afternoon in a neighborhood located in an upscale part of Illinois.
Frost caked the lawns near the heated sidewalk I stood on. I imagined the place to be serene in the summertime, even if it was a vacant-seeming region now.
A stretch of abodes stood before me without their lights on. Nervousness coursed through me. The idea of having traveled all this way for the information to be wrong made me anxious.
I walked along the concrete pathway towards his front door. I stepped on a creaky porch. I set aside my awareness of the likely pending disappointment and knocked.
A shuffling of feet was on the other side of the entrance. as well as A remote control clicked as the volume of a television blaring a news report got turned down.
He answered. The man fit the correct age range I calculated he would fall into. He wore a flannel jacket and slacks, He had on a blue pair of slippers. His gray mustache bristled as he saw me.
“James Grover?” I asked.
“If you’re trying to sell me something I’m not interested.”
“I’m very sorry to bother you sir, and I promise I won’t take up much of your time. I’m here to ask if you would be willing to let me ask you a few questions about something you might know about. See, I make documentaries for a living, and I have concluded that you might be able to help me.”
I could not take a good photograph when asked, but it was a stringent falsehood I conveyed well in the moment.
In reality, I was a podcaster. The term documentarian, though not as modern, seemed more legitimate. Especially to an older gentleman.
“Alright,” he said after a moment’s hesitation. “What are you making a movie on? Also, where’s your film crew?”
“I gleaned that you were the type to prefer remaining anonymous. The conversation‘s recorded. This will be with your consent, of course. The subject I want to discuss with you involves the triangle game.”
Grover took a few steps away from the threshold and broke eye contact with me as his lips pursed. His eyes wandered over to the corner of his living room, and he brought his gaze back to mine.
“Why do you want to know about that?”
“Because I can’t find anything about it anywhere,” I said. “I’ve even been to the National Archives of Game Show history in search of it. It’s as though it never existed. I know it did because I found this article.”
As I brandished the piece of writing to him, his eyes bulged as he focused and scanned the text.
“Ahh,” he said as he took in a deep inhalation, “I remember that man. Tell you what, come on in. Would you like some coffee?”
I took a seat in one of his recliners as I asked him a few generic questions about his life.
James spent a considerable time of his youth in North Lawndale, one of the rougher places in Chicago. He escaped his impoverished upbringing by pursuing a career as an inventory clerk. He worked his way up to management in a warehousing company.
“I beat the odds in a big way,” he said as he folded his hands and sat across from me.
“So, what can you tell me about your experience on set that day? Do you know about anything that happened post-production?”
“They made us sign contracts where we would promise not to talk about what we went through with anyone. Still, I’m at the point where I’m not very worried, or I don’t think I should be. I was much younger then, about your age. I lived at the boxing gym and had dreams of going pro. Of course that didn’t happen, but when I wasn’t training I was drinking and doing stupid things that young men do. Bar brawls I didn’t deserve to get away with but somehow did. My mother watched a lot of game shows. Without my knowledge, she submitted my name for consideration to become a contestant. She thought it would make me a better person if I had some kind of hope for helping the family. One besides crushing peoples noses for a living.”
“How did she hear about it?”
“I have no idea. I wish I asked her.”
“How did you find out you were going to go on?”
“Back then, everything was a phone call, so that’s what we got. They flew me out there, I took a taxi to get to the set. It was not a traditional studio. The place was closer to a factory with a fake space ship built inside of it. In the center of the room was a neon triangle with the same spaciousness of a house.”
“How was the game played?”
“Before it started, they told us to write down three things we were good at. I put boxing, organizational skills, and running. Daisy listed hers as poker, math, and long distance swimming. Roy - that was his name, the person in the picture you showed me - put outdoor survival, shooting, and cooking. We would stand at each point of the triangle. We’d get asked a question by the host, and we had three minutes to answer it. If we got it right, they gave us a reward being able to attack one of the other two people using the skill sets we put down. The goal is to make the other two quit by getting enough questions correct. Of course, we went into the game blind to the rule set. Otherwise I may have chosen the most aggressive ability imaginable. Roy won because he chose aptitude with a firearm, which trumps any martial art, whether I like it or not.”
James lifted his pant leg and showed me a scar above his knee.
“At least he was kind enough to not make it a fatal blow,” he said.
I showed him the words written on the back of the newspaper clipping. He shrugged and told me he was unaware, dismissive of it as someone’s scrapped note.
I asked him if he remembered the name of the host or could give me a physical description.
“I don’t remember anything about what we called him, if he even told us what he went by. His hair was black and a pompadour style. He wore a purple suit with a bright orange tie.”
“Two last questions,” I said. “Do you know what happened to Daisy, if she’s still alive? Also, do you recall the address of the place where they filmed the game?”
“I wrote to Daisy twice a year before she vanished. We did have one conversation over the phone, and she told me that bad luck was going to follow the losers of that pilot. There was no media coverage about her passing that I ever saw. As far as the location, sure. I wrote it down in a journal I kept with me even when I traveled. I used to keep track of my workouts and diet regiment back then. Let me grab it.”
3
The location where the Triangle Game took place four decades earlier stood in a squalid part of the city.
I passed the ruins of the old LA zoo on my way to the spot. I contemplated how the sight I was about to take in could not get any stranger. I was wrong.
The building was five stories, but the front only had a trio of stained glass windows. Bullet holes surrounded the casements. The place had a nave roof and flying buttresses on both sides. Multi-colored graffiti littered the outside.
It sat in a neighborhood filled with homeless people who slept on benches.
I went there mid-afternoon. I approached the front and found two locked doors. I scaled around back. I stepped over heaps of trash in the process, and saw an opening in the form of a hole large enough to crawl into.
A surge of adrenaline hit me me as I belly crawled through. I was taking a bet on how there were no cameras, guards or residents who would make a scene out of my trespassing.
It is amazing the rules one will bend for the sake of new content on social media, I opined as I made way into the space.
I turned on the flashlight of my phone and saw nothing but an enormous dusty chamber made of concrete.
I moved into the next room. A hoarders lifetime supply of broken antiques sat. Spray painted devil-horned faces grinned from the ceiling.
What caught my attention the most was a camera’s tripod. It stood alone in the far left corner.
I approached it to get a better look. I kicked aside a bunch of cans. As they clattered away, I looked down and saw a pointed tip of something drawn on the ground.
I removed most of the trash by shoving the majority of it aside and saw what was underneath.
The large triangle, which took up most of the flooring in the chamber, was still there after all these years.
In the center of it was a thin line of blood. I crouched down and peered at it.
The fluid was still wet, and a horrid stench met me. I gagged and recoiled, and in my backing away, my shoulder bumped against a dusty and discarded shelf.
Gunfire rang out.
I did not know if it was outside or near me, but I did not wish to find out. I exited the way I came in with a relentless sprint and drove as far away as I could.
4
A year later, I was finally wrapping up my recording of the podcast. I titled it ‘Three Ways to Die.’
While the name of the series was quite sensational, I felt the story merited a bit of clickbait. I had no followers and was unsure of how it would perform.
I reasoned that giving the story any publicity I could would help me find the lost piece of media. Even if it was on the cutting room floor of that very space I had to leave.
I went to call Grover, to try and collect an email address so I could send him the pre-uploaded production.
A woman answered.
“You’re looking for my father. He lost his life six months ago. Someone killed him. I would appreciate it if you got rid of this number.”
She ended the call less than a second after the last word. She wrote me off as an insurance agent looking to take advantage of a grieving family member.
I paced around my room. Although I did not know him well, I had come to like him, and his gruesome end was not one he deserved. I researched crime news to find out what had happened to him, to no avail.
The newspaper piece I had collected that fateful day sat at the edge of my desk.
I lifted it towards me and flipped it over again. I stared at the words — CC ENVELOPE EXIT.
The sentence was nonsensical. I had applied my own meanings to the gibberish phrase. Like it was a cryptic and silly way of saying ‘outgoing mail.’
I do not know whether it was desperation, a creative inclination or an admixture of both. I decided to run it through an anagram generator I had searched for on the web.
It came up with many phrases, some of them surreal, but the one that popped out to me was EXPECT VIOLENCE.
My stomach turned as I realized how my own personal investigation yielded nothing. I opened the window and was soon exposed to some fresh Sierra air, which was therapeutic but not curative.
I decided to take a long walk. I had been sedentary over the last week due to intensive editing. I figured a jaunt would help me smooth a few psychological knots things out.
I slid my closet door open to try and find a pair of sweat pants.
The sound of thunder reverberated outside. I stared out to find the sky had become overcast.
The closet door creaked even louder than I could remember it having been before.
Orange ties hung on the rack, and a triangle painted a pastel green was visible behind it.

1
We underestimate the trials the dead have gone through.
This obvious mistake leads to avoidable missteps in life. It is still all too common.
When my Grandfather passed away, I inherited a house in the mountains. The view was breathtaking. It had a sweeping vista of infinite pine trees. The place was nowhere near as large as the properties surrounding it.
It was a summer home for him and my Grandma. The interior of it contained many of his items. This included tobacco pipes, cabinets of obscure teas, and cupboards of whiskey bottles.
One Saturday evening I went through the attic and found a dozen stacks of boxes. The majority of them remained unlabeled. Several contained pulp paperbacks and stacks of old photos. Towards the end of his life, he gave up his old pastimes of hunting and fishing. He stayed at home and watched old game shows instead.
I tried to clean the roof space in one day. I found myself unable to complete it before tiring and going to bed.
The next morning I resumed the activity. It was no longer about trying to declutter the area and fill it with my own possessions. It was now a way to learn more about the man.
All I knew about his reputation was how he had served in World War II. My family told me how he was as short on words as he was on patience.
I found an old newspaper article, dated 1983. There were other period pieces around it. The topics varied. This included the US invasion of Grenada and the debut of Cabbage Patch Kids dolls. A device known as the mobile phone received a mention.
Yet what caught my attention was the first piece. I brushed aside cobwebs to find it buried underneath a pile of cardboard with burnt edges.
The picture was of my Grandfather, Roy Davies. He held a check for fifty thousand dollars. This was an amount I later found out equaled to one hundred and fifty two thousand in today’s money. The mystery of how he could afford the place he gave me was no longer one worth pondering.
The wall behind him had an illustration of a ramshackle house on a hill. The title of the write-up was NORTHERN CALIFORNIA MAN WINS IN THE PILOT FOR NEW SHOW ‘THE TRIANGLE GAME.’
I read the five hundred word account. It detailed how he flew to Los Angeles to be a participant in an allegedly syndicated program. There were two other people he competed against. The editorial feature did not go into detail about what the goal of the game was. How to win or get disqualified was unknown to me. Still Still, my Grandfather walked out a much richer man before he flew back home.
It did mention the couple he played against, a man called James Grover and a woman named Daisy Francis.
I flipped the article. I found were words written in orange ink with a marker on the back, CC ENVELOPE EXIT.
I searched online for the triangle game. I found variations on the pastime ‘I Spy’ first. Players would spot triangular items in their immediate vicinity. I discovered a few board games, along with IQ-related quizzes.
No information was available about a television broadcast.
2
It took almost a month of research to find where James Grover lived.
I managed to find his house by paying for a background checking website. He had gotten a criminal charge for running a red light in front of a cop. Otherwise his record was clean. That single infraction allowed me to find him since it put him in that specific database.
I stood outside his red brick house in a suburb. It was a Wednesday afternoon in a neighborhood located in an upscale part of Illinois.
Frost caked the lawns near the heated sidewalk I stood on. I imagined the place to be serene in the summertime, even if it was a vacant-seeming region now.
A stretch of abodes stood before me without their lights on. Nervousness coursed through me. The idea of having traveled all this way for the information to be wrong made me anxious.
I walked along the concrete pathway towards his front door. I stepped on a creaky porch. I set aside my awareness of the likely pending disappointment and knocked.
A shuffling of feet was on the other side of the entrance. as well as A remote control clicked as the volume of a television blaring a news report got turned down.
He answered. The man fit the correct age range I calculated he would fall into. He wore a flannel jacket and slacks, He had on a blue pair of slippers. His gray mustache bristled as he saw me.
“James Grover?” I asked.
“If you’re trying to sell me something I’m not interested.”
“I’m very sorry to bother you sir, and I promise I won’t take up much of your time. I’m here to ask if you would be willing to let me ask you a few questions about something you might know about. See, I make documentaries for a living, and I have concluded that you might be able to help me.”
I could not take a good photograph when asked, but it was a stringent falsehood I conveyed well in the moment.
In reality, I was a podcaster. The term documentarian, though not as modern, seemed more legitimate. Especially to an older gentleman.
“Alright,” he said after a moment’s hesitation. “What are you making a movie on? Also, where’s your film crew?”
“I gleaned that you were the type to prefer remaining anonymous. The conversation‘s recorded. This will be with your consent, of course. The subject I want to discuss with you involves the triangle game.”
Grover took a few steps away from the threshold and broke eye contact with me as his lips pursed. His eyes wandered over to the corner of his living room, and he brought his gaze back to mine.
“Why do you want to know about that?”
“Because I can’t find anything about it anywhere,” I said. “I’ve even been to the National Archives of Game Show history in search of it. It’s as though it never existed. I know it did because I found this article.”
As I brandished the piece of writing to him, his eyes bulged as he focused and scanned the text.
“Ahh,” he said as he took in a deep inhalation, “I remember that man. Tell you what, come on in. Would you like some coffee?”
I took a seat in one of his recliners as I asked him a few generic questions about his life.
James spent a considerable time of his youth in North Lawndale, one of the rougher places in Chicago. He escaped his impoverished upbringing by pursuing a career as an inventory clerk. He worked his way up to management in a warehousing company.
“I beat the odds in a big way,” he said as he folded his hands and sat across from me.
“So, what can you tell me about your experience on set that day? Do you know about anything that happened post-production?”
“They made us sign contracts where we would promise not to talk about what we went through with anyone. Still, I’m at the point where I’m not very worried, or I don’t think I should be. I was much younger then, about your age. I lived at the boxing gym and had dreams of going pro. Of course that didn’t happen, but when I wasn’t training I was drinking and doing stupid things that young men do. Bar brawls I didn’t deserve to get away with but somehow did. My mother watched a lot of game shows. Without my knowledge, she submitted my name for consideration to become a contestant. She thought it would make me a better person if I had some kind of hope for helping the family. One besides crushing peoples noses for a living.”
“How did she hear about it?”
“I have no idea. I wish I asked her.”
“How did you find out you were going to go on?”
“Back then, everything was a phone call, so that’s what we got. They flew me out there, I took a taxi to get to the set. It was not a traditional studio. The place was closer to a factory with a fake space ship built inside of it. In the center of the room was a neon triangle with the same spaciousness of a house.”
“How was the game played?”
“Before it started, they told us to write down three things we were good at. I put boxing, organizational skills, and running. Daisy listed hers as poker, math, and long distance swimming. Roy - that was his name, the person in the picture you showed me - put outdoor survival, shooting, and cooking. We would stand at each point of the triangle. We’d get asked a question by the host, and we had three minutes to answer it. If we got it right, they gave us a reward being able to attack one of the other two people using the skill sets we put down. The goal is to make the other two quit by getting enough questions correct. Of course, we went into the game blind to the rule set. Otherwise I may have chosen the most aggressive ability imaginable. Roy won because he chose aptitude with a firearm, which trumps any martial art, whether I like it or not.”
James lifted his pant leg and showed me a scar above his knee.
“At least he was kind enough to not make it a fatal blow,” he said.
I showed him the words written on the back of the newspaper clipping. He shrugged and told me he was unaware, dismissive of it as someone’s scrapped note.
I asked him if he remembered the name of the host or could give me a physical description.
“I don’t remember anything about what we called him, if he even told us what he went by. His hair was black and a pompadour style. He wore a purple suit with a bright orange tie.”
“Two last questions,” I said. “Do you know what happened to Daisy, if she’s still alive? Also, do you recall the address of the place where they filmed the game?”
“I wrote to Daisy twice a year before she vanished. We did have one conversation over the phone, and she told me that bad luck was going to follow the losers of that pilot. There was no media coverage about her passing that I ever saw. As far as the location, sure. I wrote it down in a journal I kept with me even when I traveled. I used to keep track of my workouts and diet regiment back then. Let me grab it.”
3
The location where the Triangle Game took place four decades earlier stood in a squalid part of the city.
I passed the ruins of the old LA zoo on my way to the spot. I contemplated how the sight I was about to take in could not get any stranger. I was wrong.
The building was five stories, but the front only had a trio of stained glass windows. Bullet holes surrounded the casements. The place had a nave roof and flying buttresses on both sides. Multi-colored graffiti littered the outside.
It sat in a neighborhood filled with homeless people who slept on benches.
I went there mid-afternoon. I approached the front and found two locked doors. I scaled around back. I stepped over heaps of trash in the process, and saw an opening in the form of a hole large enough to crawl into.
A surge of adrenaline hit me me as I belly crawled through. I was taking a bet on how there were no cameras, guards or residents who would make a scene out of my trespassing.
It is amazing the rules one will bend for the sake of new content on social media, I opined as I made way into the space.
I turned on the flashlight of my phone and saw nothing but an enormous dusty chamber made of concrete.
I moved into the next room. A hoarders lifetime supply of broken antiques sat. Spray painted devil-horned faces grinned from the ceiling.
What caught my attention the most was a camera’s tripod. It stood alone in the far left corner.
I approached it to get a better look. I kicked aside a bunch of cans. As they clattered away, I looked down and saw a pointed tip of something drawn on the ground.
I removed most of the trash by shoving the majority of it aside and saw what was underneath.
The large triangle, which took up most of the flooring in the chamber, was still there after all these years.
In the center of it was a thin line of blood. I crouched down and peered at it.
The fluid was still wet, and a horrid stench met me. I gagged and recoiled, and in my backing away, my shoulder bumped against a dusty and discarded shelf.
Gunfire rang out.
I did not know if it was outside or near me, but I did not wish to find out. I exited the way I came in with a relentless sprint and drove as far away as I could.
4
A year later, I was finally wrapping up my recording of the podcast. I titled it ‘Three Ways to Die.’
While the name of the series was quite sensational, I felt the story merited a bit of clickbait. I had no followers and was unsure of how it would perform.
I reasoned that giving the story any publicity I could would help me find the lost piece of media. Even if it was on the cutting room floor of that very space I had to leave.
I went to call Grover, to try and collect an email address so I could send him the pre-uploaded production.
A woman answered.
“You’re looking for my father. He lost his life six months ago. Someone killed him. I would appreciate it if you got rid of this number.”
She ended the call less than a second after the last word. She wrote me off as an insurance agent looking to take advantage of a grieving family member.
I paced around my room. Although I did not know him well, I had come to like him, and his gruesome end was not one he deserved. I researched crime news to find out what had happened to him, to no avail.
The newspaper piece I had collected that fateful day sat at the edge of my desk.
I lifted it towards me and flipped it over again. I stared at the words — CC ENVELOPE EXIT.
The sentence was nonsensical. I had applied my own meanings to the gibberish phrase. Like it was a cryptic and silly way of saying ‘outgoing mail.’
I do not know whether it was desperation, a creative inclination or an admixture of both. I decided to run it through an anagram generator I had searched for on the web.
It came up with many phrases, some of them surreal, but the one that popped out to me was EXPECT VIOLENCE.
My stomach turned as I realized how my own personal investigation yielded nothing. I opened the window and was soon exposed to some fresh Sierra air, which was therapeutic but not curative.
I decided to take a long walk. I had been sedentary over the last week due to intensive editing. I figured a jaunt would help me smooth a few psychological knots things out.
I slid my closet door open to try and find a pair of sweat pants.
The sound of thunder reverberated outside. I stared out to find the sky had become overcast.
The closet door creaked even louder than I could remember it having been before.
Orange ties hung on the rack, and a triangle painted a pastel green was visible behind it.

For the most part my lawn doesnt look horrible. But as you walk it, there are lots of bumpy high spots and lower depressions. Probably due in part to lots of mole digging action underground.
For the high spots i imagine i can remove the high spots, and seed to patch. But for the low spots... im not sure if its better to first remove the grass that is there, then fill until its level, then seed... or just put fill dirt on top of the existing grass until its level (and maybe the grass grows up and through?).

The episode resumed on a shot of a large patch of ice and snow, a snow machine blowing in the background next to a snowy slope. The camera panned left onto the two shivering teams, with Scarlett and Trent clinging to their respective team flags.
"Greetings, ice teens!" Chris greeted as he and Chef rode up on the back of a snowmobile wearing thick parkas. "Cold enough for you?" He chuckled as the shot cut in closer and panned back across the freezing campers, Chris adding "I'll take that as a yes," when it reached the end of the line.
"Time for part two of today's challenge!" the host announced. "'Capture the Snow Fort.' To win, you either have to demo the enemy's fort," he directed their attention to his left, the shot cutting over to a rather poorly constructed snow castle, "or capture their flag and bring it back to your own fort." He directed their attention in the opposite direction, to a much nicer-looking snow fortress. "Rats won the first part, so they get first dibs on the forts," Chris explained.
"Obviously we're taking the castle," Leshawna opened as the camera zoomed in on the Rats. "We're not fools."
"It could be a trick," Scott said. "Nice on the outside means nasty on the inside, but let's just go with the castle."
"I hope there's a fireplace there," Geoff shivered before they went to their fort.
\
A clock wipe transitioned the scene to inside the Rats' fort, a pleasant tune playing as it was shown to be just as nice-looking on the inside, if rather bare. Aside from the campers and their flag, all that was inside was a pile of snowballs and a shovel stuck into the ground.
"Great idea to pick this snow fort over the other one," Geoff told his teammates.
Confessional: Scott
"I could've made us go to the shack so we could lose faster, but I don't want anyone catching on to my strategy just yet," Scott clarified.
Confessional Ends
The scene cut to the Maggots' shack, which was just as ugly on the inside as it was out. It was as bare otherwise as the Rats' castle, though, with only a shovel and pile of snowballs.
"Wow, it's almost as depressing as our chances of winning!" Dave said dryly as he and his teammates looked around in disappointment.
"On the plus side, at least we're warm in here," Scarlett added.
"Our fort isn't the best, but that doesn't mean we shouldn't try our hardest in the challenge," DJ tried to stay positive.
\
"Listen up, players," Chris called over a megaphone as the scene cut to Chef carrying a lawn chair past a blazing fire pit. The host was already seated in a chair of his own, and his assistant soon joined him. "Here's how it works! Use the shovel in each fort to fire your collection of Mystery Snowballs," the eyes of the six Rats immediately turned to their embedded shovel, and Leshawna grabbed the handle, "which you can fire at each other's forts."
"Awesome! I took out my uncle's left eye with a meatball this way!" Scott said as he drew the shovel's handle back an inch and released it with a twang.
"Why are they called Mystery Balls?" Molly called out from the Maggots' castle while Scarlett tested how stable their shovel was.
"Because they all inflict major damage!" Chris answered. "Thanks to the secret weapon hidden inside each ball." The Maggots were shown looking at their pile of snowballs, the shot zooming in as one of them made an odd noise and shook. "Some, will damage you," the host added, "so choose wisely."
"Each team has to elect a Captain to command, and conquer," Chris continued. "Starting...now!"
"I'll be the Team Captain," Scarlett immediately said back at the Maggots' base. "Any objections?"
"None from me," Anne Maria shook her head.
"I don't have a problem with it," Katie added shortly after.
"I don't want to be in charge," Molly finished.
Confessional: Scarlett
"That was unsurprisingly easy," Scarlett said. "If you want to be a leader, it's preferable not to push your authority to the max or act condescendingly. Why do you think many leaders are detested by their peers?"
Confessional Ends
"What's the plan, Scar?" DJ asked the captain.
"Well," Scarlett said, "I was thinking that maybe we should keep some of the more physically gifted back here in case we need to fend off the Rats."
The camera zoomed in on Dave. "Who stays and who goes?" he asked.
"Molly, Dave, and Katie, go and take their flag," Scarlett declared. "DJ, Anne Maria, and I will hold them off and try to hit their fort with the mystery balls."
Anne Maria smiled at the plan. "Not a bad idea. Let's do that then," she said as Dave and Molly ran out of the castle, leaving the rest behind.
"Good luck out there," DJ told Katie with a smile.
"Thanks," Katie said with a smile of her own. "Make sure to shovel lots of snow onto our fort."
"Why?" DJ asked her.
"Just to make sure that the fort doesn't melt instantly," Katie answered the question before leaving.
\
"I'm captain. Live with it," Scott declared as the footage cut to him and the Rats. "B, Trent, and I stay here. Geoff, Leshawna, and Sammy, capture their maggot-y flag."
"Shouldn't someone else take my place?" Leshawna countered. "I'm not really the best at running."
"I'll take your spot then," Trent finalized the plan. "I want to prove myself since I'm new here."
"Aaand, GO!" Chris suddenly called from off-screen.
\
The scene flashed outside as Geoff, Sammy, and Trent ran out onto the ice. "Let's do this!" Trent called as he ran ahead.
"Those Maggot dudes are going down!" Geoff declared.
The shot cut up to the bright and sizzling sun, then down to Chef and Chris – who had changed back into their normal clothing, with the addition of a straw hat for Chef. Both were drinking some kind of coconut drink. "Hurry up," Chris warned the unseen campers, "my ice is melting! And your forts will too if the sun gets much higher!"
Trent was keeping a steady pace until he suddenly slipped on the ice, causing him to slide through.
"I've never gone sleddin' like this," Trent slid past Geoff and Sammy on his stomach. "See you!" He eventually came to a full stop, but the ice beneath him started to crack and soon broke entirely, plunging the boy into frigid water. He promptly bobbed back to the surface, still in his pose and frozen in a block of ice.
Chef started cackling hysterically, and the shot cut back to him and Chris watching from the sidelines. "Forgot to tell ya!" the host called out. "No Man's Land is more like No Man's Water!"
The camera quick-panned back to the castle, where Leshawna and Scott were discussing who should do what.
"Here's what should happen," Scott started. "I'll supply the snowballs while you rocket them to the Maggots' fort."
During this, B went to the other side of the castle and saw a tall block of ice. Hatching a plan, he grabbed an ice pick from his jacket and started to poke on the ice.
"Are you sure about that?" Leshawna continued talking. "You took out your uncle's eye. I don't see why you can do the same thing here."
"If you say so," Scott held up a snowball, until it blew up in his face, making him cough for a while.
Confessional: Scott
"Leshawna has to go too," Scott noted. "She's very headstrong, and that could mess up my plan."
Confessional Ends
Scott fired a snowball at the Maggots' snow fort, causing part of it to crumble.
"You hit a bullseye with that one," Leshawna quipped.
"Maggots, now is the time to attack!" Scarlett ordered inside the fort.
"I'll make sure to guard the flag," Anne Maria got in front of the team's flag.
The scene cut to Molly racing across the ice at top speed, Katie and Dave following a little ways behind her.
"How are you feeling right now, Dave?" Katie focused her attention on Dave.
"If I'm being honest, Katie, I would rather stay back and defend the fort," Dave told Katie.
The ice beneath them began to crack, and soon broke entirely plunging the two Maggots into frigid water. They promptly bobbed back to the surface, still in their poses and frozen in a block of ice.
"What?!" Molly said in shock after looking at her teammates conditions. "Hold on. I'll come back for you after I get the flag," she said, moving forward and ignoring her frozen teammates.
The shot cut back to Sammy and Geoff as they got a frozen Trent out of the water. "Don't worry, Trent. We'll get you out of this," Sammy said.
A snowball got hurled courtesy of the Maggots, and unfortunately, Sammy was the victim of the circumstance. She got hit in the head, knocking her out cold.
Geoff was shocked by what had happened. "I will carry on," Geoff told his fallen teammates. "I won't let you two get hurt anymore."
\
"We should aim higher!" Scarlett called out as the shot returned to the Maggots' fort, the brickhouse looking out their front gate. "Dave and Katie got frozen and we need to hit their shack or we'll lose!"
"I'll help with that," DJ said as the camera panned to him bending the shovel back as Anne Maria loaded a snowball into the loop of the handle. DJ let it go, and the snowball was launched into the air with a twang. The camera followed it over the castle wall, then zoomed out to show it flying over No Man's Land – Geoff still racing towards the Maggots' base; Molly racing toward the Rats' base; Sammy still knocked out; and Dave, Katie, and Trent still frozen. The snowball struck a part of the Rat castle that was a tower, causing part of it to crumble down.
"You hit it!" Anne Maria announced with cheer from the Maggots' base.
"Thanks DJ," Scarlett told him with a smile. "Now keep shooting!"
\
The shot cut back to the Rats again, Scott loading a particularly large snowball onto their shovel before an even bigger one landed on the snow next to them...and burst open to reveal the junkyard guard beetle.
"Whoa," Leshawna told the beetle. "Haven't you attacked us already?"
The larger one paused, and its tiny child hopped out onto its head and waved.
"I'm not going through what Trent did," Scott told it quickly, "so go and burn their base!" The scene cut back outside as he pointed out the window towards the Maggots' base, and the angry beetle hopped out next to him and scurried back along the ice with B building steps out of snow outside.
"Nice thinkin'," Leshawna told Scott. "Time to get launchin'."
\
B managed to place the ice shard over the shack, directing the sun's ray onto the Maggots' castle and making it melt.
"We're melting!" Anne Maria cried out.
"This isn't good at all," Scarlett said.
To make matters worse, the beetle rolled up inside and screeched at them.
"How did you even find us?" DJ shrieked before running alongside Scarlett because of the beetle chasing them.
Geoff saw what was going on inside the fort, and with Anne Maria all alone, he knew he could get the flag.
"Keep guarding the flag!" Scarlett called back to Anne Maria.
Anne Maria managed to get in front of the flag before Geoff reached her. "I dig how dedicated you are to your team. You're pretty strong," he praised her.
This got a smile out of Anne Maria. "That's really sweet of you to say."
"If it's not any trouble, I just need to take your flag so my team can win," Geoff continued.
Confessional: Anne Maria
"That Geoff is one smooth eye candy," Anne Maria stated, "but I ain't gonna give the flag to him. What's mine is mine and what's his is his."
Confessional Ends
"Don't listen to him! He's just trying to steal it from you!" Scarlett snapped at her as DJ was throwing snowballs at the beetle just to fend it away.
Anne Maria snapped out of her trance and held on tightly to her flag. "No way am I giving the flag over to you."
Geoff tried to take it, but Anne Maria still held on tightly to the flag, leading to a tug of war situation. "I'm also sorry, but my team can't lose again," Geoff struggled to get the flag off her.
\
Meanwhile, Scott went outside to see the Maggots' fort melting. "Crud. What am I supposed to do here?" He saw the shard on top of their fort and grinned. "I'll let someone else do my work for me."
He went back inside the Rats' fort. "Got the snowballs ready?" Scott asked his teammate.
"Armed and loaded," Leshawna presented a small army of snowballs she made out of snow.
Scott started to launch out the snowballs, with some even hitting the melting fort.
Molly was racing along the ice before getting hit in the legs by one of the Rats' snowballs, causing her to slide onto the Rats' shack. She got up in a few seconds to see her team's base about to melt thanks to the sun ray.
"How am I gonna destroy the Rats' fort at this rate?" Molly grunted before seeing the shard B used to direct the beam. She also saw Trent's frozen state and with that, came up with a plan.
"Let's see if science actually taught me anything about sun rays," Molly said before picking up a snowball and throwing it at the shard of ice.
B got out to see the beam now directed at Trent's iced body. Due to reflection, the sun beam got directed at the Rats' snow shack. The shack melted in an instant, shocking the defenders of the base as the shard fell down.
Trent, who was now unfrozen thanks to the beam, fell down next to an unconscious Sammy, but because he was used to being frozen for a long time, he was still immobile.
"Nice magnifying lens, Beverly. That's sabotage!" Scott blamed B, who reacted with shock along with the other people around.
"Maggots win!" Chris declared as he and Chef arrived outside, both back in their winter wear and Chef holding a tray of several steaming mugs.
"And here's your reward," the host added, motioning to the tray in his smiling assistant's hands. "McLean Brand Hot Chocolate", he said. "Scald your senses with chocolatey goodness."
Molly cheered, and the Rats looked down in disappointment. B steeled his gaze at Scott, who looked away and whistled innocently.
Sammy was now awake and Trent was completely unfrozen. "Is the challenge still going on?" Sammy asked.
"No. We just lost," Geoff walked into view.
"I should get near a fire," Trent shivered. "I was frozen for who knows how long."
The unfrozen members of the Maggots dragged Katie and Dave back to their destroyed base in order to figure out how to unfreeze them.
"So how are we gonna get them out?" DJ asked his team.
"Wasn't there a fire breathing beetle around here?" Anne Maria said.
"The beetle isn't here anymore," Scarlett reminded her. "And besides, using its fire could be too risky."
"B gave me his ice picks," Molly pulled them out. "We can use them instead.
Confessional: Dave
"Molly left us to be frozen and didn't even get us out," Dave confessed angrily. "I'm gonna have to talk to her about that."
Confessional Ends
The footage skipped ahead again, now showing dusk over five of the six Rats relaxing on the steps of their cabin, Trent with a blanket around his shoulders and Scott standing in front of them.
"I told you, B stands for "bad man," and Beverly is a bad man!" Scott inquired.
"I don't know him that much, so I'm going to decide who I'm voting for on my own," Trent declared.
"Same here," Leshawna agreed.
"How can you trust someone who's so secretive, that he doesn't even talk?" Scott got in Sammy's face. "He hates athletes, you know," he claimed, making Sammy shocked as the dirt farmer focused on Geoff. "I've read B's diary. He calls you 'fizzy'."
Everyone seemed to be upset with what was given to them. "Just thought you all should know," Scott said.
Confessional: Sammy
"Is what Scott said true or not? Granted, B has helped us a lot, but he never talks at all," Sammy exclaimed. "I'll just flip a coin on this vote."
Confessional Ends
The scene cut to a shot of the island at night, the camera zooming in then cutting to the six Toxic Rats at the campfire pit – Leshawna, Scott, and Trent in the front row; B, Geoff, and Sammy in the back.
"After another jam-packed day of losing," Chris began as Chef walked up in his hazmat suit carrying the box containing the Toxic Marshmallow, "it all comes down to this."
"The following Rats are safe," Chris said, holding up the first marshmallow. "Leshawna."
The lively girl caught her prize with a smile.
"Geoff." The cowboy hat boy caught his treat.
"Leshawna." The sista caught her treat as well.
"And Scott," Chris finished, the devious boy catching his marshmallow as it flew over his head.
"Which leaves, Bev and Trent," Chris announced, the shot pulling back to show the mute genius looking nervously and the musician sitting up straighter. "And the loser is...," he said with an impish smile, pausing for effect. The camera alternated between close-ups of Trent and B, until finally...
"B."
The Strong, Silent Genius frowned, then kept his distance from the toxic marshmallow Chef dropped near his feet. The marshmallow managed to sink further below the ground. When it was gone, B squinted at Scott, who grinned back satisfactory.
"Time for the Hurl of Shame, buddy," Chris told B.
B slumped down, the scene transitioning to him in the Hurl of Shame in the exact same pose.
"Any final words Beverly?" Chris asked, the Rats standing by him. "Any words at all?"
B looked at the people around him and was setting himself up to speak. The gasps of his former team can be heard, and just when he was about to say his words, he got interrupted.
"Time's up!" Chris stopped B and Chef pulled the lever, launching him screaming into the night sky.
Chris turned to face the camera while the five remaining Rats stood behind him gazing off into the distance where B was flung. "Come back for more mutants, mayhem, and manipulation," he said excitedly, "next time, on Total! Drama! Revenge, of the Island!"
(Roll the Credits)