Whitman's emblem

Grass holds a special place in the American psyche. For the past century, it has been the great symbol of prosperity and wealth. Every suburban house has come gift-wrapped with a white picket fence and manicured lawn. It's what we call "curb appeal."


This picture may be idyllic, but reality is quickly becoming untenable. According to the Canadian Centre for Architecture,

North America now has more than 32 million acres of lawn under cultivation, occupying more land than any single crop, including wheat, corn, or tobacco. Americans spend $750 million a year on grass seed alone and more than $25 billion on do-it-yourself lawn and garden care, making the lawn and landscape industry a booming sector of the economy.

Whitman's emblem of spirituality - the "handkerchief of the Lord" - has become an industry.

Thanks to increasing public awareness of global warming and energy dependence, what President Bush calls our "addiction to oil," the more progressive among us have begun to question the need for those millions of acres of grass and the tools that keep them tidy. The leaf blowers. The mowers. The seeders. The spreaders. The herbicide makers.

What would our neighborhoods look like without fossil fuels? At first, the lawns might look like hay meadows. There’s certainly nothing wrong with that. Then we’d learn to wield ancient implements, starting with the scythe. I just bought a reel mower at Lowe’s for $90. It's lightweight and a good workout.

As individuals, we may not be able to single-handedly stop urban sprawl and farmland destruction, but we can make choices to reduce energy consumption, reduce noise pollution, cut air pollution, promote community, protect wildlife habitats, and improve water quality.

I

s it too much to hope for a sea change? Not long ago I was rereading the last page of The Great Gatsby:

He had come a long way to this blue lawn, and his dream must have seemed so close that he could hardly fail to grasp it. He did not know that it was already behind him, somewhere back in that vast obscurity beyond the city, where the dark fields of the republic rolled on under the night.

If F. Scott Fitzgerald were here, I imagine he’d have something to say about modern decadence. Isn't it time to wipe the proverbial petroleum from our soft American hands?