This weekend it warmed up enough around here so that I could get out to do some yard work. I hate yard work! I live in a townhouse and have a postage stamp-sized yard so there isn’t a lot of acreage to worry about. But there are better things to do on a Sunday afternoon. It seems especially silly to be spending time trying to get grass to grow.

Part of my attitude comes from living in the desert southwest for many years before moving to Virginia. In Tucson, and to a lesser extent in Las Vegas, we were encouraged to plant yards using native vegetation, with rocks usually substituting for grass. Of course, the golf courses and resorts sucked up any water I wasn’t using (and more!) but the native-plants-for-the-yard idea was fine with me.

In this area, however, everyone must have a lawn. It must be a law. If I tried putting a rock garden in front of the house I’d probably have some kind of neighborhood watch group investigating me for un-American activities. So I put in enough work to avoid nasty stares from people driving by but I’m not picky. It’s green and growing? It stays! Maybe I could pave over the back yard. No one can see it over the fence anyway. Ooops, forgot about the neighbors on their decks.