Green With Lawn Envy

There was a time long ago when we had a front lawn. It was back in the days when our kids were little, and little feet traipsed across the yard in mini-steps chasing a ball or a butterfly or a shadow. We’d set up the sprinkler on designated odd or even days, dragging it every twenty minutes to a different part of the yard. On alternate days we’d hold the hose, thumb over the end, creating a fine mist, helping our grass stay green.

The backyard was always a different story. With towering oaks and pines and the flowering magnolia tree, the grass out back never had a chance. And taking far too long to rake ankle-deep leaves each fall undoubtedly contributed to the sparseness. Our backyard has always been a haven for lawn-killing activities—Whiffle ball, soccer, football, even golf, with my son digging holes in strategic places, creating his own private par-3 course. I never minded so much that we didn’t have a beautiful backyard. After all, it was in the back, hidden away from leering, judging eyes.

I’m not exactly sure when, but at some point my son decided the front yard was a better venue for football. Every season—even in winter—it was the designated place for neighborhood weekend games. Over time, bit by bit, the lawn began to disappear, and a mixture of dirt and crab grass sprung up in its place. My husband and I debated what to do about it. Putting down harmful pesticides was out of the question. But even an environmentally friendly fix-it-up-job would require blocking off the yard to allow time for the grass seed to take. We decided even that was too much. Somehow it just didn’t seem right to make the Gillette stadium of the neighborhood “off limits.”

I was fine with my front yard, I’d really come to accept it, until this spring when I looked up and down my street and saw lawn after lawn of luscious green. Though all my neighbors’ lawns are nice, one in particular stands out. The grass is carpet-thick, and is so bright you need sunglasses to shield your eyes when gazing upon it—even on rainy days. When I’m feeling particularly spiteful, I say things to soothe myself. “It’s only perfect because they use Chem-Lawn.” Or, “they probably have no life—they’re slaves to their lawn.” I scowl when I walk by, hissing at its haughty, proud perfection. “It’s so fake,” I say to myself. “Like a movie star who gets a face lift, tummy tuck and Botox injections. Who would possibly want to do that?” And then I walk away, glancing nonchalantly over my shoulder at the brilliant, gleaming green.

A few weeks ago, my husband took at stab at fixing our mess of a lawn. He raked up the crab grass and put down kid-friendly fertilizer and grass seed. But even with all the rain, nothing took. Zilch. It wouldn’t be so bad if our poor excuse for a lawn blended in with the neighborhood, but with the lawns around ours so thick and lush, ours sticks out like a sore thumb. It is nothing but dirt and tufts of different textures and colors—like a bad hair-coloring job.

Though disheartened, I try to focus on the positive. Having no lawn has its advantages. There’s hardly any mowing to speak of, and no need to haul out the sprinkler on hot summer days. There’s no need to obsess about the weather, no losing sleep over a drought or worrying about the stretch of rain that makes mowing impossible. When I think about it, there’s really only one drawback to our skimpy lawn—it looks really, really bad.

I suppose I’ll just have to wait for the fall, when our dirt patches and crab grass tufts will be mercifully hidden under brown and yellow and orange oak leaves. And I’ll pray for a hearty winter—the treacherous snowy kind we’ve had in year’s past—so our lawn will be covered in a blanket of white, blending in with all the others.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com April, 2006)