One more new smell greeted me as I hit the homeward Academy Street uphill yesterday: new-mown grass. And with it, of course, the aural roar of the lawn mower. Not our lawn for sure; it’s turning green, but mostly pushing up the annual crop of onion grass. However, most of our neighbors use lawn services, so their yards are preternaturally green, greener than shamrocks, green as the Emerald Isle (which, if you’ve seen it, is the greenest green you’ll ever see). So sad that making their lawns so green no only costs them money, but adds the pollutants of the two-cycle mower engines to our already polluted air, and also ends up feeding the overfed algae of the Chesapeake Bay, an estuarial system unique in the world, and now rapidlty succumbing to its nearby human population in the millions. Used to be oysters there were in the tens of millions. So thanks, neighbors, but my grass will need cutting soon enough. I’m not keeping up with these Joneses.
But wait! What’s this I sniff? Horsehide? Varnished ash wood? Leather gloves? Sox vs. Yankees in a game that counts? Fenway’s emerald diamond is a green I can believe in!
©Arnold J. Bradford, 2010.