She’d landed on a lawn. She’d heard of them, but had never seen a real one before. There was grass all around Miss Level’s cottage, but that was just, well, the grass of the clearing. Every other garden she’d seen was used for growing vegetables, with perhaps just a little space for flowers if the wife had gotten tough about it. A lawn meant you were posh enough to afford to give up valuable potato space.
~ A Hat Full of Sky, Terry Pratchett
I’ve written about lawns before. How, if I ever had a lawn of my own, I wouldn’t bother to take care of it ’cause lawns are pointless.
Of course, like most youthful declarations (“I’ll never get married!” “I’m going to be a veterinarian!” “I’m going to live in a mansion in the woods with dogs and cats and horses and write novels all day!”), the high-minded, environmentally-conscious refusal to buy into lawn-care has gone by the wayside:
The lawn came with the house, which is located on one of the busier streets in my little town, so murdering the grass wouldn’t just be a statement: it would be a dramatic, public statement, plus an annoyance to the neighbors, plus a hindrance to selling the property if the Husband and I ever decide to sell the property. If there’s anything I dislike more than lawns, it’s making dramatic, public statements that annoy the neighbors and make it harder for us to plan an escape from the city.
So. Here I am, on a fine spring afternoon, enjoying a post-lawn-mowing sandwich and the smell of cut grass and spearmint.
There are worse things.