Crabgrass and Clover

Walking on my neighbor’s lawn is like dancing on a cloud. Its soft and plush and it makes your heals bounce. My neighbor tends to his lawn as if it were a pet. He tenderly waters, feeds and pampers it. And it rewards him by smiling at him with its deep green color. And when a breeze blows, it wags its stems at him. My neighbor loves his lawn. Its an obsession. But its not just my neighbor, a blanket of healthy, dark blades covers most of the yards around my suburban town.

This obsession with turf is something new to me. When I was growing up, I never knew that crabgrass wasn’t really grass. I thought it was part of the yard. And in my family, our lawn was treated more like a feral bird than the family canary. You might throw it a few crumbs now and then but it was a wild thing and you had no intention of making it part of your family. Of course, we did mow our lawn - to keep out the snakes. But we did not fertilize it or aerate it. And we certainly didn’t water it! As Nana would say, “Why would any fool spend money to sprinkle water on the grass when the Good Lord provides it freely from the sky!”

At my house, grounds keeping was low on our list of priorities. And it wasn’t just my family that held this belief. Pretty much everyone in our little community followed the same philosophy of neglect. It may have been because we were “humble folk” – translated as “poor”. But really, how could we fritter away our hard earned dollars on a the endless mission of greening a plot of earth when the mortgage needed to be paid?

Certainly there were advantages to having an un-groomed yard. We enjoyed an abundant crop of buttercups all summer. And since I hadn’t been told that clover was another word for weed, I would spend hours collecting up the petite pink flowers that peppered the ground all summer. I would dance into the house and gleefully present them to my Mom. She would hug me and then carefully arrange the prize in a small vase and display them on the kitchen table.

More clover also meant that more wild life - like squirrels, rabbits and gophers - would regularly visit the backyard buffet. It was always exciting to watch a bunny bounce through the yard on its way home from a sweet treat at our house. If I sat quietly, one might pass near enough for me to hear the tiny munching noises it made while devouring its dinner.

A coarse lawn didn’t impair playtime for me or my sisters. It made it better. Mom and Dad never worried that rough kid games, like tag, chase and hide and seek, would tear up the grass. The bare muddy patches made perfect bases for kickball and baseball. And mud pies were never in short supply. The small stones that littered the landscape could be used to build miniature walls and bridges. Or we could dig for buried treasure left by wealthy, but hopelessly lost, pirates. And we could set up a game of horseshoes or pitch a tent without concern that our actions would earn a demerit from the local garden club.

The backyard was a place for picnics and parties and playgrounds. It was bumpy and brown and full of shamrocks. It was never perfect but it was always fun. My neighbor’s lawn has been precisely clipped and shaved and is ready to be viewed and admired. I wonder whether his neatly mowed turf will bring as many fond memories to his kids in twenty years as my parents' motley plot brings to me.

As I head home from my neighbor’s house to attend to my chores, I notice some dandelions have managed to invade my lawn. I wonder if I should attack them with some “weed away.” Just then my three year old daughter rushes up to me clutching a bouquet of bright yellow blooms. She hurls herself into my arms and laughs with delight, “Mommy, I picked you some pretty flowers!”