Read by Michael Flamel

Yes, it’s true—I hate lawns, but love grass. This seemingly contradictory statement deserves an explanation.

We had just over two acres of land, some of it wooded. Where there should have been a lush lawn, I had weeds, clay, and rocks. In fact, I believe rocks should be New Hampshire’s state flower. My attempts at establishing a proper lawn included some false starts, like not knowing the difference between annual and perennial seed (yes, guilty)! Once I mastered that bit of arcane knowledge, I proceeded to over-fertilize and burn every blade of grass.

Eventually, I managed to establish a front lawn, for which my loving wife exercised great patience. And she certainly did.

Then there was the backyard, a bigger challenge, still largely weeds and rocks. Another lawn? No way. I dislike the manicured lawn and trimmed hedges we adopted in the United States from the English as the ideal. I wanted something more rugged, more free-flowing, more American. All this notwithstanding my professional admiration for the Royal Navy.

I decided to start a backyard garden. My three children, familiar with my front lawn travails and failures, did an eye roll. I first dug up a small tract, which the kids dubbed “the coffin,” recalling my prior front lawn experiences. In “the coffin,” I planted some Karl Foerster Feather Reed Grass—pretty hard stuff to kill. I loved how it flowed in the wind in all seasons. Then I expanded the space back some 60 feet and sideways some 30 feet.

The kids now called my expanded garden space “the graveyard.” Graveyards are, after all, bigger than coffins. But I persisted, planting more Karl Foerster, along with porcupine grass, forsythia, and lilacs. The tall grasses looked good and waved gracefully in all seasons. They weren’t prim, proper, and beautiful like something out of a P.G. Wodehouse Blandings novel or a Jane Austen book (not that I’ve read any), but they displayed a rugged North American countenance. Except, perhaps, when finally overcome by snow and ice.

Feeling more confident, if not triumphant, I started another garden a few feet to the north. This one was lower. My mainstay was blue fescue—hardy, low, and occasionally on sale. And rocks. I excelled at planting rocks. I checked with the local police to see if I could take them from dug-up construction sites. It all looked good—a large rock garden.

Sure, I added some phlox, heather, bugleweed, chives, blueberries, strawberries, and hosta, but the ornamental grass was the mainstay. I was pleased that my kids’ wisecracks completely ceased. I was even more pleased when, years later, my eldest daughter, newly married and in a new house, asked me for gardening advice.

I was also gratified when, with the kids all out on their own and my wife and I (mostly my wife) deciding we no longer needed all the property and the four bedrooms, on the first day of showing the buyers said they loved the gardens.

I hate lawns, but love grass. ❖

About the Author: Raymond J. Brown is a security consultant living in New Hampshire. A retired USCG captain, he had neither the time—due to being at sea, frequent moves, and raising young children—nor the money until he became a senior officer to pursue gardening. His initial attempts were embarrassing failures, but his perseverance eventually paid off. If his wife had let him, their entire yard would have been ground cover (and a fair portion eventually was).