Our family is on the cutting edge of the California drought. Make that the non-cutting edge — our front lawn has been dead and gone since the beginning of last summer. Who knew we’d be trendsetters now by going brown a year ago?
Truth is, we didn’t take out our lawn to save water; a few years ago we put it in to save water. We relandscaped our front yard to be water-wise and in a small area planted drought-tolerant, no-mow grass. The grass grew really well, forming lush, sculpted mounds. The neighborhood kids called it the jungle and loved playing in it. I loved not mowing it, which would have been dangerous anyway with kids on safari possibly hiding in it.
As it turns out, you do have to mow no-mow grass once in a while. Otherwise, it dies from thatch build-up, essentially choking itself to death. By the time I figured this out, it was too late. I attempted to resuscitate it by pulling out the dead patches and dethatching the remaining clumps, but ended up with a lawn that looked like a green dog with mange. When it was obvious the lawn wouldn’t recover, I stopped watering it. I consider it a mercy killing.
After the grass was good and dead, I pulled it all out. I’m sure the neighbors were shocked at me for exposing our bare dirt in public, but I’ve seen evidence that at least some neighborhood cats approve. And I found two missing children who had developed some amazing survival skills. That’s not true, of course. The neighborhood kids stopped playing in the lawn when it started looking like they could catch a skin disease from it.
So, our front lawn has been dirt for a year, except for a few alarmingly hardy dandelions, which I consider to be the cockroaches of the plant world. I finally managed to get rid of those, too, but like cockroaches, I suspect it’s only temporary.
As someone who grew up on a farm, I’m personally not bothered by dirt. Compared to the thin, rocky Colorado soil of my childhood, the dirt here is black gold. It’s all I can do to keep from rolling in it. The aforementioned cat evidence is a sufficient deterrent.
But I recognize that the nakedness of a dirt yard may offend the more urbane sensibilities of some people–namely, my wife, so I plan to do something about it: I’m going to turn it into a California native plant garden, which is a socially acceptable way of basically letting it go to weeds.
That will have to wait until fall, though, so the winter rains can help it get established. This summer, we’ll be scrimping to meet the new San Jose water restrictions, especially with our son home from college. No matter how much we nag him, he still takes showers. And get this: He flushes after every use.
In the meantime, I’ll need to come up with something else for the front dirt. One idea is to plant a California flag in the middle of it and print up some yard signs that say things like “Water Patriot,” “Lawns are lame,” “Save us, El Niño,” and “Protecting your right to eat almonds.” I could also follow the lead of the farmers along Interstate 5 in the Central Valley and put up a sign that says “Politicians caused the drought.” But to be fair, I’d also have to have one that says, “Climate change caused the drought.” That ought to mess with a few minds.
Or, I could go the spiritual route and turn it into a Zen dirt garden. I have a few leftover landscaping rocks and flagstones that I could feng shui into contemplative positions, and leave a rake in the front for passersby to explore their inner chi. The fact that I just used feng shui as a verb and I have no idea what chi is means I might be better off stealing some river rocks from our neighbor’s xeriscaped front yard and use them for the outlines of a labyrinth instead. In either case, I’m guessing only the cats would spend any meaningful time meditating in the front yard.
What I’ll probably end up doing is planting a few hills of cucumbers, zucchini and squash. They won’t take much water and will quickly spread to hide most of the dirt. And because it’s such a residential taboo to grow anything in your front yard that’s actually useful, maybe I’ll put up a “Help yourself” sign. It’ll come across as a considerate gesture, but of course with squash and zucchini, it’s really more of a plea. And I’ve never managed to grow a truly burpless cucumber, so there will be plenty of those, too. We’ll eat what we can of this produce and compost the rest. Or dispose of it on neighbors’ doorsteps, pretending to be neighborly.
After all, everyone has to make sacrifices in this drought.
Dave Kehmeier can be contacted at djkehmeier@sbcglobal.net.
