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Show A V by Chalat Never judge a man by the lawn he keeps Our forefathers were an adventuresome bunch I wouldn't really want to relive any of the hardships endured while trying to tame the New World. But I do have a few bones to pick with them. Foremost among my complaints is the quaint custom they began on the Eastern seaboard and which subsequently spread across the country the lawn. Almost as soon as the pilgrims landed, they seem to have been bent on recreating the rolling greens of home. They scythed through the underbrush, uprooted trees and set out neat squares of uniform domestic grasses an act which we have been paying for ever since. I'll admit the lawn adapted well to its new colonial home. It gave a sense of civilization to the budding republic. It established the young rebels as serious-minded professionals. And once the country gained its independence, the lawns surrounding the presidential residence helped to elevate the status of the newly-united states. But when the pioneers tried to graft this phenomenon onto the Western deserts and into the rocky mountains that's where they ran into trouble. Unfortunately, that trouble has been handed down through the generations. For a while, the West was relatively peaceful. Except for occasional skirmishes with the Indians, rustlers and drought, the towns grew quietly the sanctity of Sunday morning services was never interrupted by the drone of mowers and weedeaters. In fact, the early homesteaders were grateful for any greenery volunteering to spread its roots on their doorsteps. Ragweed, dandelions and thistles all were welcomed with open arms. But of course, times have changed. Despite the lawn's obvious incompatibility with the Western environment, despite plagues from drought to grasshoppers, mountain dwellers and desert rats insist on planting Kentucky Bluegrass and spending millions of dollars on pesticides, herbicides, watering systems and mowers. And regardless of climatic vagaries, neighborhood associations still require members to surround themselves with buffer strips of neatly trimmed green grass. The price for noncompliance is high excommunication from cocktail parties and barbecues, suspicion about one's general moral fiber and outright public derision. It is therefore with some seriousness that I consider the condition of my own patch of English heritage. It is, admittedly, frightful. Since it was last trimmed, the dandelions have sent up bare ugly stems and various patches of crab grass have outgrown the surrounding domestic variety. The neat borders on either side of the front walk have disappeared and wild tufts of prairie grass lend an appearance of neglect to the front stoop. The weeds are thriving, of course, because I have spent most of my free time during the last week watering them, and the lawn. Nevertheless, several of the high traffic strips are turning conspicuously brown. I find myself suddenly worrying about what the neighbors are saying. But to tell you the truth, their lawns don't look much better. So I am thinking of calling for a truce, for a new set of neighborhood bylaws which outlaw mowers, herbicides and any discrimination based on a man's race, religion or landscape. |