This is my front lawn. Unfortunately there is nothing unique about it. It is like most of the other front lawns in the street where I grew up. Of course it was not always like this and a quick look at the street view on Google Maps would show that only a few years ago what is now brown dirt and green weeds was once slowly dying grass. There are no pictures of the lawn when it was lush enough to need mowing more often than once a term. It isn’t the kind of thing that you take photos of because you don’t expect it to go but now the grass has died and any water lucky enough to hit the ground would only be feeding the weeds.
As a part of the house that was my home for sixteen years there are obviously fond memories of that small patch of grass. The invention of a game using the front veranda that was like volleyball except without any friends. Water fights that started out with organised teams until one person found the jet nozzle on the hose. French cricket which was quickly halted when one family member suffered a case of cricket bat to the face. These three stories make my childhood look pretty sparse for memorable moments but the best stuff happened on the larger lawn area around the back of the house. Of course this part of lawn isn’t looking too great either, but there are still what could be called blades of grass visible, even if they are separated by cracks that would make a spin bowler weep with joy.
As a country kid growing up in the presumably very wet nineties a front and back lawn was taken for granted, which made coming home for the first time and seeing brown where there should be green a shock. This does not mean that I mourn the lawn though. With my childhood home now full of people who are legally, if not mentally grown-up the lawn doesn’t serve much purpose. It was used when it was needed and will now suffer a long and dusty death.
By Angus Randall