Until recently, my front yard lawn resembled a piece of misplaced wilderness. A month’s worth of rain and the curse of procrastination had spawned a rather disturbed creation. As the sight of it became increasingly less pleasant, I had no doubts that that residents of my neighborhood block would soon file a complaint. Subsequently, I culled it.
Lawn maintenance is not a particularly joyous activity. I do not derive pleasure from my lawn in whatever shape or form. I had once toyed with the idea of cultivating a home garden, but I found the labor and time associated too costly for a few leafy greens. So the solution is rather simple: find someone else who has the time to spare. The homeless in my city spend many hours sitting by stop lights asking for handouts and small transfers of wealth. If I could convince one or even a handful to manage my garden, I could easily substitute a portion of my food budget for seed money to see my plans go into fruition. (Yes, not one, but two puns.) I would take a small portion of the harvest to compensate for my expenses, the hobos would get to keep the rest of the food, and Frankenstein lawn would not rise back from the dead. Now I only have to convince my landlord that uprooting her front lawn for charity would be a good idea.