Confession: I haven’t mowed a lawn since 2001, and the only time I mowed the lawn prior to that was when my husband was doing his annual training with the Washington Army National Guard.
The summer our oldest son turned 11, he took over lawn-mowing duties. As each of our three younger sons came of age, lawn-mowing was added to their weekly chore list, and my husband had one less thing to worry about.
“I shouldn’t have to mow the lawn again, until I’m almost 60,” Derek calculated, as he watched our capable sons work.
Derek turned 56 this summer. Our third son is getting ready to move out again, and our youngest probably won’t be long behind him.
Suddenly, Derek isn’t so fond of our large, grassy front yard.
When a homeowner in our neighborhood ripped out his entire lawn and replaced it with bark, rocks and plants, Derek nodded in approval.
“That’s the way to do it,” he said. “Low maintenance. Nothing to mow or water.”
It’s called xeriscaping; a landscaping philosophy that uses native, drought-resistant plants and arranges them in efficient, water-saving ways.
I eyed the neighbor’s yard.
“It looks like the entrance to an office building,” I said. “There’s no place to play!”
Derek shook his head.
“How long has it been since anyone played in our front yard?” he asked.
Then last week, Shawn Vestal wrote a column about how much he hates his lawn.
“See?” Derek said, shaking out the newspaper. “All the columnists want to rip out their lawns.”
Talk about your fake news.
Because this columnist loves to look out her front window and see a lush, green lawn.
Yes, I know it’s probably irresponsible water-usage and rampant consumerism or rampant water usage and irresponsible consumerism, and I’m not the one mowing it, but I’ve already given up our backyard to the cause.
Slowly, but steadily, the grass back there is disappearing. First came the construction of the Shed Mahal, then the Great Gazebo, followed by the Delightful Deck and Derek’s Glorious Garden.
There’s barely enough grass left for me to run through the sprinklers on a hot day. Well, I don’t really run. I romp and sometimes I skip, and if my neighbors are out mowing their backyards, they get free entertainment.
Now, Derek’s eyeing my last green space.
Here’s a list of things you can’t do on a xeriscaped yard: play bocce, croquet, or lawn darts. You can’t do somersaults or cartwheels, or spin in circles until you get dizzy and fall down. You can’t play tag, Red Light Green Light, Mother May I or Red Rover. You can’t lie on your back and look at the clouds, and you can’t spread out a blanket and have a picnic.
All of those things happened in our front yard more times than I could possibly count – just not recently.
Perhaps that’s part of my reluctance to let go of grass and embrace wood-chip mulch.
Last night, I sat on our front steps in the cool of the evening as the sprinklers shushed back and forth over the green expanse.
This lawn holds the imprint of chubby baby feet, sweaty soccer cleats and teenage footsteps that always seem to lead away.
It’s cradled me, while I cradled my boys, as we pored over stacks of picture books. It held us as we stretched out and named cloud shapes, and whispered wishes and counted stars.
Others may see our lawn as a wasteful indulgence, but to me it’s a memory-strewn magic carpet, that holds precious memories of the boys who grew to men, while mowing its contours.
And it shines like a green light to beckon those boys home again.