| Church of the Yard Creationist Dropout written by Lane Hudson |
| Springtime is here and my neighbors are beginning work in their yards. I, on the other hand, try to ignore them by staying inside. When I hear their lawn mowers, leaf blowers, and weed trimmers, I close my blinds and turn up my music. My neighbors have manicured lawns of green grass with artfully placed mounds of pine straw and bark. My yard, on the other hand, offers a nice contrast and is covered with lots of moss with a sprinkling of dandelions, crabgrass, mushrooms, and shiny clay spots. I'm told my yard is often used as a landmark for directions through the subdivision. A nearby neighbor, Tom Wilcox, wishes he lived next to me. "I wouldn't worry about how my yard looks," he says. Last spring, after studying first my yard, then the yards of my neighbors, I arrived at an absolute nonnegotiable conclusion about this conflict in yard maintenance; it has nothing to do with yard work at all. Our difference in lawn care is theological in nature, spiritual if you will -- pitting evolution against creationism. My yard maintenance philosophy is based on Darwin's theory of evolution - the survival of the fittest through natural selection. If it's in my yard, is any shade of green, and can be cut with a lawn mower without ripping off the blade, then it is part of God's divine plan and should live untouched. My neighbors, on the other hand, belong to the Church of the Yard Creationists. They work hard to remove what I invite to grow, and to grow what resists their every effort. It doesn’t take faith to create a Garden of Eden according to Yard Creationists, only money, constant fertilizer application, and hours of work. But alas, I have sinned. I am only human, and I weakened last spring by breaking one of the 10 Commandments - I coveted their beautiful landscaped lawns. That's right. After all, a whole subdivision of creationists couldn’t be wrong. So last spring, I tried to become one of them - a yard creationist. And this folks, this is my sad journey down that slippery and dangerous road of creationist theology as it pertains to lawn care. First, I sought a higher power. I consulted a professional lawn company's field representative. At the appointed time, he arrived at my house and surveyed my yard's condition. “You could rent your yard out as an artillery range. You really need to bulldoze this yard and add several tons of topsoil," he said. "Short of that, you can take the following steps and pray for a miracle.” I guess it was his attempt at humor. As he left, he asked that I not ever use his name or the name of his company in association with my lawn. He asked if I would give him back his business card. Well, miracles can happen and I figured I was due one in the yard department, especially as a new convert to yard creationism. So I followed the expert's step-by-step instructions for what he called "emergency lawn resurrection" or what I called "bringing back the dead." His first recommendation was to spread moss killer pellets and wait five days. Well, patience is not my forte; so to kill the moss five times faster, I applied five times the recommended moss killer pellets. The moss did die instantly, but my yard glowed eerily green for 24 hours and birds fell from the sky into my yard. The expert's second recommendation was to aerate my clay soil. So I rented a 250-pound self-propelled machine that plowed my yard at 20 mph while I hung on for dear life. I ran into my mailbox and broke it off. I ran into my gas grill and damaged it. I chipped a corner off my wooden deck. I cut paths through my wife's flowerbeds. I took bark off trees. And my two cats are permanently scarred emotionally. When I finished four hours later, my yard did look like an artillery range. All the while, my neighbors, my fellow creationists, peeked from behind their blinds, scared to come outside. I realized being a creationist is not only hard work, it can be dangerous and lonesome. The expert's third recommendation was to spread 500 pounds of lime in my yard. I found out I could buy 1,500 pounds for $25 at a local farm outlet store. I figured I would give the extra 1,000 pounds of lime to my neighbors to earn their good will. So I borrowed a friend's 1/2-ton truck to haul the 1,500 pounds of lime. Halfway home from the farm store, the truck’s drive shaft broke under the excessive weight of the lime. So I called a towing service. "How big a vehicle do you need hauled," the voice on the phone asked. "Well, it's only a small truck," I replied. "But it does have 1500 pounds of lime on it. Can you haul the truck to my house and unload the lime before you carry it to the garage?" There was a long pause and I heard him chuckle. Then he said, “That will cost extra.” I didn’t ask how much. I didn’t want to know. The tow truck arrived and after loading my friend’s small truck, the tow truck driver drove to my house. As we approached he asked: "What happened to your yard? Looks like an artillery range." I tried to explain to him the theological war of yard care I was waging. But he didn't care, and told me so. So with engine revved and gears whining, he upended his truck bed, slid and shook 1500 pounds of lime into my yard, and then drove off with my friend's truck on the back. I agreed to pay for the towing and half the repair bill. The neighbors meanwhile, were still peeking out from their blinds, again, checking on my initiation into yard creationism. I waved at them. Before I could share my 1500 pounds of lime with my neighbors, it rained. Folks, you cannot give away wet lime, nor can you spread wet lime with a push broadcaster. I couldn’t let it just stay in my back yard. Besides, if 500 pounds is what I need, then 1,500 pounds would be three times better! So with a wheelbarrow and shovel, I tossed 1,500 pounds of wet lime into my yard. It looked like it had snowed. Folks passing through the neighborhood slowed and circled the block. After the lime dried, the neighborhood kids rode their bikes through my yard throwing up a dust cloud like cattle crossing Death Valley. I did have some beautiful grass in a few spots for a few weeks. But then last summer's watering restrictions and drought killed it. Today, one year later, as I survey my lawn from my easy chair through the picture window, there is absolutely no evidence of my efforts at being a yard creationist. And without any help from me, my moss has returned greener than before, along with the dandelions, crabgrass and some new mutations of weeds. And this is my tragic theological story as a would be member of the Church of Yard Creationists. And I remind myself, that the paths and bare spots are ribbons and bows for nature’s gift to me. I am after all, raising kids, not grass. So I have returned to being a yard evolutionist, which I guess, makes me a backsliding yard creationist. |
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