Everybody’s a Critic

Friday, January 14, 2011

Page 11

AT THE SIDEBAR (Column)

Everybody’s a Critic

By J’AMY PACHECO

I was in the driveway washing my car a few days ago when I noticed a couple strolling down the sidewalk, toward my house. I didn’t give them any thought as I knelt down to scrub the rims.

I was almost finished when I heard the woman emit a sound of pain, then say, “Oh, that just doesn’t look good.” At that moment I stood, emerging from the position behind the car where I had been out of their view, just in time to make eye contact with the couple. Apparently, the comment had been directed at my front yard.

In all fairness, my yard is a work-in-progress. When we bought our home a year ago, it was a 20-year-old foreclosed fixer-upper that needed a lot of work. In fact, “a lot” is the understatement of the year.

When we did our walk-through, for example, the sink in one of the bathrooms fell through the cabinet. The first time I took a shower in the house, the shower door fell off. The house needed paint, flooring, new cabinet and closet doors, toilets in every bathroom, appliances, fixtures, and just about everything else except walls. And even those needed some repair.

We’ve spent the better part of the past year working on the inside, which now looks pretty spiffy. We still have a few things to do, but it’s no longer embarrassing to have visitors. So a few months ago, we turned our attention to the pathetic front yard.

The yard was mostly crabgrass which, to its credit, was sort of green. There was a wrought iron panel inexplicably mounted on the front porch that did nothing but restrict access to the area next to the front door. Running along the sidewalk was an odd ditch that promised sprained ankles for errant feet.

My husband surprised me one Saturday by getting rid of the crabgrass. Most people would get rid of this parasite by using one of the many sprays on the market. But not my husband. He rented a rototiller and plowed up the entire front yard, turning it into an impressive pile of dirt clumps held together with crabgrass.

The neighbors were intrigued enough to stop by to chat with my husband about our new look. It was definitely a standout in our neighborhood of well-tended, traditional yards.

A week later, he tilled it again, then raked it flat. Or as flat as a sloped, plowed-up, crabgrass-clogged expanse of dirt could be. Only then did we start discussing what we might do with our little piece of the American Dream.

On our honeymoon two decades ago, we’d both admired the way many people in the Dominican Republic created driveways out of squares of concrete or brick with lines of grass in between. We decided to try something similar in our front yard.

I, however, wanted a sort of wild, garden-ish look. We bought a truckload of flagstone, bags of grass seed, and flowers.

We created a border on three sides of the yard, filling it with colorful flowers. Next, we scattered the flagstone around the area in the center, loaded it with topsoil and a bunch of stuff that makes grass grow, and planted seeds that were supposed to grow wispy, meadow-like grass around the stone.

For a few weeks, it looked sort of weird. Rich, black dirt ringed flagstones that appeared to glow in the dark. It was perfect for Halloween, we thought.

We sprinkled the area several times a day. When our first grass fuzz appeared, we were so excited that we’d have handed out cigars, if they came in green.

But then, it grew cold. We had frosty mornings, and eventually, torrential rains. Most of the fuzzy grass, as well as much of the black topsoil washed down the slope, across the sidewalk and into the gutter and storm drain. I suppose most of my grass is now somewhere in the Pacific Ocean.

But a few hardy wisps stuck around and now, the dirt areas around the flagstones look a lot like the head of a man who’s just gotten hair plugs. Green hair plugs, at that.

The snapdragons, pansies and violas are flourishing and our border looks downright pretty. But since it’s January, I think it should be pretty obvious the grass area is under construction and shouldn’t be judged. Not where I can hear, anyway.

When I realized the couple—not neighbors of mine—was talking about my yard, several responses begged to escape my lips: “How about giving me your address, so I can come by and critique YOUR yard?” was one; “Isn’t it fortunate there are so many other streets you can walk on?” was another. But with a rare burst of self-control, I mustered a big smile and said, “Thank you for your input.” And then I sprayed them with the hose.

Just kidding—but I really did want to. I sprayed the green grass plugs instead.