As a longtime urban dweller, there are certain things I willingly sacrifice in exchange for the amenities of city life, such as round-the-clock food delivery and enough drug stores to keep New York in aspirin for all eternity. But lately, there are things that increasingly feel like bigger-than-usual tradeoffs. Especially at this time of year, I miss easy access to nature (and living near a park, while lovely, doesn’t count). It’s the ability to simply open a door and walk outside, barefoot, on a lush, thick expanse of grass (dog poop- and chemical-free), day or night.
My suburban childhood front lawn was where I first walked at 18 months (to the great relief of my parents, who were beginning to wonder about me), and where I continued to play out – literally and figuratively -- the joys and sorrows of childhood. It was where snow forts were built, leaf piles were jumped on, the dreaded “sticky balls” were picked up every fall, and where warm-weather picnic lunches were eaten on a plaid woolen blanket – Fritos, PB&J sandwiches and ginger ale.
My bare skin knew the feel of grass textures in different seasons – the crispy brown stalks of late summer and mud-luscious (thank you, e.e. cummings) squishiness after a heavy spring rain. A big believer in anthropomorphism, I spent hours creating “apartments” in the grass for the ants (who would, of course, have to take turns sleeping there as these were single-occupancy dwellings). All the lawns on my street were fair game – they were the meeting places for the neighborhood kids, and where the parents always knew they’d find their offspring when bedtime arrived.
Want to know the way to my heart this spring or summer? Invite me for a walk on a springy, soddy, deeply delicious swath of bright green grass. I’ll bring the Fritos.