I live at the crossroads of good green and bad bumpy yards--inner ring suburban aesthetics dividing the weedy and needy from the tender sod of Kentucky Blue Grass dreams.
Down the street pristine yard guy drips sweat upon his manicured desire. I used to criticize his worship of order, attempts to tame dandelion tigers, efforts to eradicate crabgrass and spear thistle terrorists. I was intolerant of those who work at their yard like it matters, since I was sure it didn't.
Now a little wiser and less wise-ass, I realize my yard guy scoffs are just dull clippers scraping old ground. More dead end mulch of unnecessary judgements. Two recent confirmations.
First, Dennis: Indians tee shirt, gold Timex, frumpy shorts and a beloved Lawn Boy mower.
He said a bit of water saves the crowns (the part of grass closest to the ground) even if the blades brown. He's there 40 years with the original lawn, now decorated with a wooden windmill, a flower cart, a sunshine flag, a couple of statues. Dennis tenderly patches where needed, probably looks with satisfaction out his plate glass window.
Next, a couple of streets over, I didn't catch her name. Looked about 78 years old and wielded a rasping edger without mercy and with high concentration. Crispy cut the grass apart from the pavement. Nodded with satisfaction. She pointed out to me that weeds didn't need a lot of water, so there's that. But what she needed was a trim look. We smiled at each other, and if I had a cap I would've tipped it.