City Guy In The 'Burbs

Episode Two

This summer was one of the hottest on record in Massachusetts, a trend across the globe that adds credence to all the climate change alarmists (and count me among them). Although we had extraordinary amounts of rainfall earlier in the year, perhaps another indicator that Mother Nature is going through a makeover, the persistent heat dried up the landscape and forced a daytime watering ban by the time July rolled around. That suited me just fine. For less water means less grass to cut, fewer hedges to trim, and no flowering bushes to prune. Sure my property, in its browned out appearance, looks Mohavi-like, but I got my weekends back.

I wasn’t always this averse to yard work. Growing up in the Bronx, I envied our suburban friends who had lawns to play on and take care of, and dreamed of the day I’d have my own mower and gardening tools. I had a glimpse of this life when I spent three college summers working on the grounds crew at the City College of New York in Manhattan, where my mother was executive assistant to the president and which has a surprisingly verdant campus. While the permanent workers were constantly looking for ways to dodge having to exert any energy, I was cutting, trimming, and pruning in an awesome Edward Scissorhands kind of fury. Well, at least until lunchtime. Then the guys would tell me to take it easy in a way that was not exactly menacing, but still underscored their, let’s say, strong desire.

Fast forward and I’m in suburbia, where I’ve lived for a couple of decades.  I have a half acre of land and an assortment of trees, hedges, and plants that would make a botanist proud. The landscaping stuff was fun for about a week, or until it took me to catch poison ivy. Poison ivy is now an annual summer condition for me acquired like some people acquire a tan. I’ve had to get steroid shots periodically, especially when my face with its mass of weeping blisters looks like it’s melting.

As a consequence, every Saturday when I stare at my yard I say to myself, “What the hell was I thinking?” Meanwhile, the perspective I have is that most suburbanites are out there happily slaving away on their lawns seemingly oblivious to the alternatives they are giving up. They are like a cult. Brainwashed and vacant. I’m especially wary of the ones who call plants by their Latin names. Are their eyes dilated? Are they clammy to the touch? Maybe they’re on something.

So, summer droughts don’t bother me. In fact, the drier, the better. With botanical growth on hold maybe now I can get some neighbors together for a stickball game. Or as I like to say gamis stickballus.