It's a 103 outside. All the lawns in the neighborhood have virtually stopped growing. They're burnt from green to tan and crunch underfoot.
Except the neighbor's lawn. It's sprayed with chemicals , trimmed, blown (never raked!) and meticulously watered with a fervor usually seen only in the insane and the fundamental.
My lawn?
Shaggy. It hosts the occasional chicory plant and lamb's ear, yarrow and hollyhock that have escaped from the garden. The local deer, rabbit, fox, toad, butterfly, bird and chipmunk population love it and spend many hours eating and subsequently pooping over its expansive weediness.
My neighbor no doubt thinks that I am insane.
But I am not the one mowing in 103 degree heat.
It's just a lawn; a convention of the French and against all that nature dictates. She doesn't like proper patches of perfectly coiffed high maintenance grass! She likes chaos and things that take care of themselves!
I will not fire up my mower and bake under the noon sun for a lawn!
Never!
5 comments:
What an asshat.
You should go out and sit under an umbrella and sip ice tea while lauging at him.
I think it would be more fun to borrow an army of small dogs who have been specially trained to pee on it in artistic designs late at night. Paisley, perhaps.
Kat,
You are freaking me out.
And if I lived next to you I would be very nice.
Of course that would also mean I was on a boat....
What about the Acid head hippie turned yuppie accross the street who mows backwards.
I'm with you... besides the molehills in my lawn dull the mower blade
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