Is there anything in the world more uninspiring and mundane than a neatly kept suburban lawn? I have scoured the most imaginative nether regions of my cerebrum and, alas, have come away empty-handed. Thinking of possible contenders I could not help but recall the view I had from my dorm room as an undergraduate—that of a giant concrete staircase. I resented the view especially since those on the other side of the building enjoyed a panoramic vista of the river. Even today it still seems unfair that I was paying the same amount for room and board as those more fortunate inhabitants.
But even that bulky and aesthetically foul staircase embodied a world of possibilities that no kempt lawn ever could. For one thing, there were always people going up and down that staircase, coming and going to conduct their business. Sometimes on lazier days, reverie would take hold and I’d find myself wondering and predicting—on no evidentiary grounds whatsoever—just where exactly those people were going.
With a neat lawn, however, there are no possibilities. For the owner of this ecological wasteland will not allow it. To him, every activity that could possibly occur on that lawn is an unwelcome encroachment on his green canvas masterpiece. Ants, squirrels, chipmunks, birds, rabbits, children, and other pests must be denied access at all costs. Though these creatures be involved in the usual work and play of the animal kingdom, any sign of natural commerce or of life in general are snuffed out. The weather, unless it comes in just the right combination of sunlight and rain, often displeases him. Too much sunlight will scorch his green rug; too much rain will drown it. Even the grass itself is not permitted to grow beyond a certain length. But all other things being equal, a well kept lawn will look the same this week as it did the last, especially if the caretaker has a regular mowing schedule, which he undoubtedly does.
And what function does this lovely lush lawn serve? Why, to show the neighbors and all who pass by what a lovely lush lawn the owner has. Like Christmas lights carefully placed around shrubbery in front of a house in December, the lawn is (in some places) a year-round reminder that the master of the house gives a damn about keeping up appearances. This of course is not a function, but rather a matter of cosmetics. A man may chide his wife for being fussy about makeup, but in the finicky department, a man and his dear lawn will always put her to shame.
Not only do millions of people keep up their lawns with a tenderness typically reserved for favored children and pets, but many of them insist that their neighbors do likewise, but perhaps not so much as to put his cookie-cutter creation to shame. No, the prideful lawn owner wants his neighbors to mow their lawns, uproot unseemly dandelions, and perhaps even strategically plant some pre-grown flowers, lest the shabby appearance of an adjacent property affect the market value of his own. Such busybodies have succeeded in influencing the levers of local government and even populate it. Peruse the bylaws of any suburban municipality and you will likely find an ordinance or two ironically instructing the locals in how their personal property ought to be maintained.
As hideous as that imposing concrete staircase was, and still is, it is a testament to productive human activity. Thousands of feet have trampled its steps and it is no worse for the wear. I have no doubt it looks the same now as it did when I was undergraduate, all the while requiring no maintenance save for the occasional winter salting. A lawn can make no such claims. It has no function. It bears no fruit. It features little or no animal activity if the owner can help it. It seldom if ever hosts a wiffle ball game or a bocce match. It is a patch of nothing.
This weekend, millions of people will tend to their patches of nothing with a sense of pride that continues to befuddle me. While other less lawn-bound people are hiking, kayaking, attending a museum or a play, or even just reading a good book, the lawn man shall go a-mowing, a-weeding, a-planting, and maybe even a-mulching. When he nears the end of his life, he may even stop to think in what sort of condition his gravesite will be kept. Perhaps that will be his greatest regret in life—that he will not be around to tend his final lawn.
