“Daddy! Stop! Daddy! Use the push mower! That lawnmower makes too much pollution!” That is the sound of Georgia, our little environmentalist, taking Hova to task for using the gas mower. It hasn’t always been like this…

When we moved back to Portland a couple of years ago in November, when the grass is green and the lawn care is easy. In the basement, my dear and lovely Aunt had left us a full arsenal of products to feed your lawn, or eradicate pesky weeds (or to do both at the same time), a manual edger, a gas edger, a push mower and a gas mower. It seemed once spring hit we would be plagued with a lawn that had to be tamed mightily and often. And it was clear, given our laissez-faire attitude toward lawn care, that we were not going to be able to keep up with the Joneses, or in this case, the O’Donnells.

Hova’s from the Southern California desert, the land of pristine, water-guzzling lawns despite the 114 degree summers. His parents own possibly the last swath of true desert in their backyard and adjacent lot, but even that is under fire from the new batch of $900,000 condo owners who find it unpleasing. His folks are looking to get certified as a backyard habitat, but I don’t think all of the roadrunners, coyotes and lizards will fit! But anyway, back to Hova--even though he's from the desert, he found something attractive in those manicured, symmetrical lawns, and he liked to keep a tidy lawn. He tried the push mower, but it didn’t cut short enough, so he dutifully mowed with the gas mower every other week, while Mr. O’Donnell mowed and edged the alternating weeks. It looked pretty good, but as we headed into summer the weeds grew fast, and the grass started to die. Georgia cried, “It’s too crunchy! Why can’t we have soft, green grass again?” So we watered daily to keep it green. We spent time weeding and manicuring.

It all felt wrong. We had so much other work to do, and even some fun to have, but we were working on the lawn. Then one day I saw a small tanker truck go by, with a big mural of perfect, green grass. TruGreen, it said. And it hit me — didn’t it used to be called ChemLawn, when people beamed with fresh and hopeful faces at the wonder of how chemicals could transform their lives? They had rebranded for the turning tide, but the message was still clear: It would truly take a tanker truck filled with chemicals to keep our lawn green. We were supposed to wrangle our grass with loud, stinky equipment and spray it with stuff that I certainly wouldn’t want Georgia to play in.

I started thinking about my Portland childhood. Portland lawns were green in the fall, winter and spring and then died back in the summer. Just like the wintering trees bud in the spring, the grass comes back in the fall. It’s an act of faith in nature, or plain laziness, to let it go. It turns out the type of grass that has naturalized here overtakes a lush ryegrass lawn in as little as five years, and the only way to save the non-native, thirsty ryegrass is to keep it fed and watered. Hova and I weren’t willing to use chemical fertilizers, or put in that much time or water.

So we’ve changed. We always knew the gas mower was spewing out toxic fumes akin to SUV emissions, so we’ve switched to the push mower, which Georgia even likes to try to use. If it gets too unmanageable Hova will sometimes get out the gas mower, but Georgia yells at him (see above). We don’t bother at all with edging. The dandelions become cheerful bouquets and the other weeds get mown with the grass. And we’ve got the prettiest clover patches popping up; we might even try to encourage a clover lawn. Georgia, our Child Entomologist, loves to sit in the clover and watch the bugs and the bumblebees.

Now when we go on a walk, Hova and I quietly mutter “Lawn waterer!” when we see lush, manicured green grass in the middle of summer. And at home Georgia wears her flip flops to avoid the spots where the grass is crunchy. The grass is certainly greener in other yards, but that's just fine with us.