they arose to spoil the perfect lawn of fine fescue, Kentucky bluegrass, or
Bermuda or St. Augustine grass. There were general and specific poisons,
too, for any number of flies, ants, and grubs that threatened perfection. By
the late s, here and there (including in the South), rebellions against
suburban household borders arose: There should be no fences, hedges, or
other barriers (e.g., garden rooms of roses and wisteria) to impede liter-
ally miles of perfect greensward. Now men and children could create com-
munal ball fields and big playgrounds. I recollect the movement. Women
had little or no part of it, since they, Farrandlike, were creatures of decora-
tion and privacy. Male suburbanites, their garages and sheds bulging with
riding mowers and bags and bottles of dangerous chemicals, would plant,
feed, weed, and slay chinch bugs from tractor seats and, in triumph, call
out, ‘‘Play ball!’’ Garden rooms got in the way of machine operations. And
small-town-like sociability is encouraged by diminution of landscape bar-
riers between private property holdings.
Another thing I observed—just north of the South but well within blue-
grass country—was that by the s, the lawns of my most chemical-
dependent neighbors began to suffer sudden deaths. Independent land-
scapers and horticulturalists confirmed that pesticides, in particular, had
‘‘chemically locked’’ the soil. Earthworms, harmless grubs, and ants that
perform essential aeration and mold-making functions had been extermi-
nated by regular and excessive poisoning. Some mention was made of birds
as victims of pesticides, too—but not much, a decade after publication of
Rachel Carson’sSilent Spring. In yet another decade, but especially during
the s, the word ‘‘diversity’’ had become common in political and also
landscaping parlance as a hallmark of socialandbotanical good health. In
other words, a diverse human community (including several racial groups,
the young, the old, and representatives of several income groups) is more
likely to thrive. Likewise, thriving landscapes consist of diverse, competing,
but ultimately mutually supporting plants and animals. All this wisdom,
now old, has made little difference in the business and practice of making
and maintaining ‘‘perfect’’ lawns. Runoff from millions of them constitutes
a major source of wetland and watercourse pollution everywhere.
Then, too, there is the roar of the four- and especially two-cycle gasoline
engines that power the mowers, trimmers, edgers, blowers, and chainsaws
that maintain this misguided aesthetic. Quiet had been the twin virtue of
privacy in the happy old quest for borderlands, but now, throughout grow-
ing seasons—oppressively long in Dixie—decibel levels in suburbs rival
those in the most raucous cities. Isolation within air-conditioned interi-