Please Stop Watering Your Lawn

I have a neighbor who obsessively waters his lawn during the summer months.  So obsessively does he manipulate his sprinkler—imagery here?—that his lawn is brown in spots because the grass has turned into a muddy field.

Let us evaluate the value of green grass:  Does it look pretty?  Yes.  Is keeping grass green wasteful in the heat of the summer?  Yes.  Offtimes—dare I say ofttimes?—when I walk early in the morning, even after a heavy rain, I see the automatic sprinkler systems whizzing away, wasting water, keeping that grass green.

Wasting-water-people listen:  The miracle of a suburban lawn is that, once it’s established, it tends to do very well for itself on its own without any help from us.

By now you’ve probably guessed that my grass is—hmm, green in spots and sort of a dusty, hazy yellowish brown in others.  When the rains come, the grass celebrates.  When there’s an absence, the grass mourns. 

What I admire most about several “lawns” in my neighborhood is that they’ve been allowed to revert to nature.  They re a paradise of wildflowers.  Could I do that with my lawn?  Unfortunately, it’s too well established.  But part of my “green” is clover.

I’m not against all gardeners, if that’s what one can call lawn-waterers.  (One wonders why they don’t install heat lamps so they can keep the grass green during the winter months.)  I do admire avid gardeners who display a feast of colors for the passersby.  I applaud them for their efforts.  And sometimes I notice that they have the same wild yarrow growing in their gardens as I do.  I could pull mine out, but it’s pretty, isn’t it?

My own yard, aside from the green/brown grass, is wild and wandering along its perimeter, like my mind.  I’m always delighted when something new springs up, and I don’t decide whether I want it or not until it flowers.

I have shade; I have sun; and I have birds aplenty.  Although I live alone, I’m never alone because my fine, feathered friends keep me company. They hide in the bushes before they scoot over to the bird feeder.  An occasionally hawk will scare them off, but not for long.

I have a rundown deck with a tree growing through one of its loose planks.  I will admit to making said tree a semi-bonsai.  Otherwise, it would cast its shade over my pots of annuals I keep for bees and hummingbirds.

My deck also serves as a rotating home for various animals I could do without:  chipmunks, raccoons, skunks, an occasional woodchuck, who didn’t chuck wood but destroyed my sunflowers by climbing their once sturdy stalks.

Has anyone called the city on me yet?  Don’t be silly.  The lawn is mowed, the bushes are trimmed.  I’m quite respectable—outwardly.  But I look at people who tend their lawns, dare I say, religiously and think:  They need a life.