I’m a tactile person. I like to touch things. Actually, I need to touch. I walk through the store with one hand poised to stroke whatever towel, blouse, or jacket catches my eye. I caress my daughter’s silky hair dozens of times during the day, and I simply cannot resist the tenderness of a baby’s satiny toes. In the summertime, I love to walk barefoot outside. I savor the roughness of the brick walkway and the tingling heat of the smooth driveway. But, the best part is that last joyful leap onto the lush, green grass of my front lawn.
Two years ago, our home was under construction and our lawn was a filthy dust bowl. A constant irritant to the eyes and nose, the dirt swirled around on the barest of breezes and clung to your feet, following you into the house where it would deposit itself on every surface. Daily cleaning could not remove this unwelcome guest from my floors, counters, and fabrics. As soon as the last construction truck roared off around the corner, and against the advice of my patient landscaper, we had a new lawn put in immediately. It was a bit late to start, but I couldn’t stand the grime a moment longer. We splurged and had sprinklers installed. It was a happy time.
The first pale green blades were met with joyful smiles and tender words of encouragement. The tiny blades multiplied and covered my lawn within two weeks. I nurtured them lovingly with carefully controlled watering—a gentle mist enveloping each supple sprout every afternoon.
Then, the unthinkable happened. Just as the all-knowing landscape professional had predicted, weeds began to insinuate themselves into my perfect new lawn. I tried spraying them with weed killer. I made a valiant attempt one hot July afternoon to yank them up by the roots with my bare hands. My fingernails all broke and the weeds were back the next day. Nothing worked. The invaders were tough. They were strong and they were many. My fledgling grass succumbed.
It was a difficult setback, but the next fall, I gathered up my courage and my shaken pride and tried again. This time, the lawn gods were with me. The weather was perfect. The weeds were weak from the long summer and could not survive the wreckage of the churning Bobcat. My fledgling lawn sprung up with optimism and promise once again.
This past spring, I waited with anticipation and apprehension in equal measure. Would the ravages of winter prove too much for my adolescent grass? Would the brown crust of winter be replaced with the green emerald of spring? Yes! My spring lawn shot up with the exuberance of toddler after a long, restful nap. By May, my lawn was a thing of beauty, bringing joy to all who passed.
Each morning I would awake and gaze out my front window as blissful birds frolicked on my lawn, chattering amongst themselves like gossipy old ladies. The back yard was home to several chubby bunnies that filled their ample cheeks with my sweet warm grass and the occasional clover. My morning romp across the driveway ended with a satisfying landing on a cool plush surface that enveloped my feet like a cushiony aquamarine carpet. My joy was complete.
When the first water ban demanded that I restrict my watering to every other day, I was not concerned. My lawn was a hearty pasture. It didn’t need water every day. I reset the sprinklers and skipped happily back outside. When the water department further specified restricted hours for watering every other day, I straightened my spine and adjusted again. My lawn was a robust field of green. No problem.
When the complete water ban was announced, I knew right away. The notice came in the mail the same day the signs went up all over town. I went home and knelt by the lush turf of my front yard. I said my goodbyes quietly, one hand pressed lovingly to the still verdant surface. Then, I went inside and turned off the sprinklers, effectively pulling the plug on my lush, green friend.
It was not over. The slow and painful death of my lawn has dragged at me all summer. First the forest green faded to pale, sickly chartreuse. We hoped for rain, but there was never enough. The chartreuse slowly gave way to tawny beige. Now, it crunches when I trudge across it on my daily trek to the mailbox. I avoid walking on it when I can. It seems disrespectful somehow.
If reports are correct, the water ban will be lifted by the time this article is published, but it’s too late for my lawn. Should I try again next year? Will you?