As I approach our house after work this evening, I can’t help but notice that our front yard is the only one on the street which hasn’t been mowed today. It would appear that all of the neighbors took advantage of the glorious weather to attend to yard duties. Lawn after manicured lawn stretch up and down our cul-de-sac like a string of emeralds. With the exception of ours. As usual.
I had asked Only Son, aged 16, as he was scurrying out the front door this morning, if there was the remotest chance of his cutting the grass any time soon. He mumbled something along the lines of “I don’t know if I’ll have time, Mom. I’m going over to Zach’s after school to work on my car and I’ll probly be too tired when I get home.”
So. Our grass is about three inches too high, and the dandelions are at least three inches taller than the grass. Oh, and they’ve just gone to seed, so scattered amongst the meadow grasses (formerly our suburban lawn) are dozens and dozens of spindly stalks topped by ethereal cotton ball-like appendages. I happen to find them lovely and fairy-like, but I’m afraid that our neighbors—all zealous year-round weed ‘n feed fanatics—might think otherwise. Not that they would ever reproach us on that score. No, we are fortunate to have those rarest of neighbors who, though meticulous about their own gardens, are thankfully tolerant of the neighborhood lawn slackers.
“You fight dandelions all weekend, and late Monday afternoon there they are, pert as all get out, in full and gorgeous bloom, pretty as can be, thriving as only dandelions can in the face of adversity.”