The wearying of the green

I’ve always had a difficult relationship with grass. I’m grumpy when it’s alive and well because that means I have to mow it more often. But dead grass irritates me as well, because it looks pitiful and I will have to throw out more seed and stand there with the stupid hose three times a day to get it to germinate, so that soon I can mow it again.

These deeply conflicted feelings doubtless come from my father. He was a city boy who moved to a grassy suburb after World War II, where he and my mother built a cunning cottage with a lawn. Some men love working on their houses. Not my father. He worked hard all week and did not want to spend his free time fussing with the manse. He grew especially to hate mowing the lawn. There were four of us kids, so in about 1960 he got the idea that each of us would be responsible for mowing one section: front, back, and either side.

This was a logical scheme, but fraught with difficulty because we were different sizes, and so were the lawn sections, so fairness became an issue. Soon we all loathed lawn-mowing even more than Dad. Finally, he got so exasperated with the whining and procrastinating that he threatened to have the yard paved. My mother’s cooler head prevailed, and thereafter the lawn got mowed, more or less, sooner or later.

Today, I think Dad had the right idea. Cultivated grass makes absolutely no sense. It bears no tasty fruits or nuts. Unlike dandelions and chicory, it can’t be made into wine or a hot drink. We slave to make it grow, only so we can decapitate it. If we let it reach its normal full size, neighbors will complain that we’re running down their property values. If we live in a covenanted development, the Lawn Ranger will come by and give us an ultimatum: Mow, or be gone.

It’s an odd obsession in New England, with its (typically) dry summers, but even weirder in the desert Southwest. In Palm Springs or Las Vegas, trillions of gallons of water are sucked up from the shrinking aquifers and dumped on the sand, all so that people can feel like they’re living in Galway, with more sunshine.

I have a friend who loves working on his lawn. He understands nutrition and hydration, grub control, pH balance, the importance of aeration and thatch-removal, and advises people with troubled grass. You’ve got crabgrass, moss, or clover? He knows what to do. This guy’s lawn is so flawless, even the robins wipe their feet before stepping.

To me, the perfect greensward has no appeal. Fortunately, my Carolina bride feels the same way. A few years ago, Miss Julie got a call from a lawn management service. “We drove by your house,’’ said the perky lady from Toxic Chemicals R Us, “and we see that your lawn has problems. For a special introductory price, we will treat it for six weeks, and even remove the dead birds and pets at no extra charge.’’ Miss Julie said evenly, “We don’t have a lawn.’’ There was a pause on the other end. “Well, I think you do. We saw it.’’

“No, you’re wrong,’’ said Miss Julie. “We don’t have a lawn, so we won’t need your services. Good day.’’ Click. She wasn’t being dishonest. She meant that although our yard is vaguely green, it is loaded with native weeds that have no need of watering, lime, aeration, or Scott’s Turf Builder. It’s more of a wild meadow with a crude haircut than a lawn. There’s some cultivated turf in there somewhere, to be sure, but it will always be an oppressed minority.

The un-American truth about me is that I prefer weeds to grass, as long as they’re not vicious aliens like oriental bittersweet, garlic mustard, or black swallow-wort. A weed indeed is my kind of plant. Native dandelions, clover, asters, and chicory are beautiful. Best of all, they’re never neurotic or depressed, and never need my help.

David Mehegan can be reached at dmehegan@bu.edu.