THERE'S not a lot of action at the Urban Farm at the moment, trapped as we are in the icy bowels of winter. Time then, to reflect on matters spiritual and turn our attention to: The Lawn.
Until recently I never had affection for lawns. In fact, one of the reasons I put in veggie beds was so I didn't have to have a lawn. For one thing, I didn't want to mow it. I spent way too much time as a boy strapped like some half-starved Dubai camel jockey to my dad's mower, an infuriatingly unwieldy machine that screamed like a Bengal tiger on heat and rattled the teeth right out of my head.
Peppering my shins with shrapnel-like shards of pulverised stone, this stupid contraption would occasionally take off at high speed, dragging me as if behind a runaway chariot.
Some kids were sent to boarding school for their sins. I mowed. And no way Jose was I going back there.
But then, out of the blue, I experienced a crippling bout of Turf Envy.
This unfortunate condition has its roots, so to speak, in the early 18th century, when British aristocrats first began planting lawns. Back then, a handsome expanse of manicured grass was a potent status symbol. Naturally enough, one had to maintain a bevy of servants to mow the lawn, and so every lush, hand-clipped blade spoke of the owner's wealth and eminence. Suddenly, I longed to get in touch with my inner aristocrat.
And so we got a lawn. After taking out a second mortgage (for something that just sits there looking green, lawn is really expensive), we eventually bought about 30 square metres of Sir Walter Premium Buffalo Lawn Turf. "Easy on the upkeep," said the brochure. "Drought resistant," it cooed. "Resilient." "Soft." "Sensual." "A great conversationalist and gifted lover." (OK, I made up the last two ones.) Was there anything this grass could not do?
First, however, just after it's laid, you have to water it - every night for ONE MONTH. I thought: if this lawn is so great, why can't it get its own water? Then it's growing, which means - you're mowing. And weeding. At the first appearance of onion weed - the bete noir of turfers everywhere - I watered the lawn with weedkiller, but all that happened was the weeds went nuts and the grass went brown.
But it was the mowing that really broke my will to live. Until I saw it for what it really is: a spiritual experience. Mowing is a ritualistic striving for suburban lawn perfection, the impossibility of which only spurs us on. Carmelites flay themselves with whips; Shiite Muslims slash themselves with knives; Hindus fast. Aussies mow.
If you don't believe me, consider this: members of Opus Dei are generally required to wear the cilice, or spikey chain, around a thigh for two hours a day. Time taken to mow the average Aussie lawn: TWO HOURS.
A coincidence?
I think not.
telliott@smh.com.au
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