My father hated to mow! Not the mowing part, but what it cost him. He loved the wildflowers that bloomed in our mountain yard. When the lilacs and dogwood bloomed, it was time to stop mowing.
He would put off mowing for as long as possible. Only when the snakes began to feel too comfortable in our yard or children complained of the tall grass tickling their noses, did he finally mow, and cuss! My mother once talked my father into spreading a Weed'N Feed. This killed all the wildflowers and the grass grew so much that my father mowed and mowed and cussed and mowed and cussed...you get the picture! Never again did any kind of weed killer touch his precious wildflowers.
Our yard without Preen or Round-up.
|moss & violets|
If my father were still alive he would be very happy right now. Our mower is broken and the grass is two feet tall. Wild creeps in from the forest edge like a stealthy hunter. Creeping in to reclaim the land that was once owned by all the little wild things and not held captive by the mower's whirling blades.
Perhaps wild is not so bad...
|weeds & tiny things|
I drive past perfect lawns that would make an old general proud, if that general was a blade of grass.
But never do I drive past a yard that would make an old Sergeant smile
...as he watched wildflowers dance in the wind...
|dandelions & violets|
...but I live in one that did!
|wild geranium & moss|
|"old stumps are beautiful," he said.|
|Virginia Creeper & Dandelions|
|white dog tooth violets|
|Oh my, I think there is another Sergeant of the Wildflowers!|