At our last house, the lawn died. One day it was green and lush. A week later a brown circle appeared in the grass. Another week went by, and the whole yard suffered a withering demise, as if we’d angered the lawn goddesses and grass gods, as if our garden gnomes and lawn mower hymns were not enough.
At our current home, the lawn isn’t so much a lawn as it is a mighty gathering of weeds. Hardly a blade of grass in the bunch. It’s hearty and hale. Drought doesn’t bother it. Disease can’t kill it. It’s so green, you might call it “emerald.” Mow it over, it looks like any other lawn.
A lesson in the power of polyculture over monoculture.
Monocultures don’t ...