We’ve started a garden, of a sort. Nothing too fancy yet, some herbs, a tomato plant, simple stuff. It got me thinking about “lawns”. The lawn irritates me as an idea. A vast expanse of manicured monotony broken by a building inspires nothing but contempt. I am a lover of dandelions and wild onions, of rampant blackberries and sneaky wild fennel creeping at the edges, of red clover and wood sorrel. I admire the bees and butterflies they bring, and the battles between the carpenter bees and the wasps above their unquiet forest of tumultuous flora.
There is little so disturbing as an even surface devoid of color. The unending sea of uniform green blades leveled and trimmed offers nothing for all the effort contributed. What a waste.
I will sit with a cold glass of dandelion tea and enjoy the war between the pollinating aviators. Our lemon balm and various seedlings will drink deep and stretch their newfound leaves and practice beckoning insects. I’ll talk to Mr. Stripey (the kids named the tomato plant after its common name), tell it how well it grows, and admire its flowers. When the conversations with the garden end for the evening, I’ll pluck leaves and flowers for a salad. Fescue and Bermuda make for a poor salad.
Enough about lawns. I have stories to write and bees to thank.