I cut the grass Saturday morning.

I used my little reel mower. I like the reel mower because it requires less maintenance than a gas-powered mower, and is also quieter. My father believes they cut better too. The grass was a little wet from dew and a bit long for the little grass-cutting implement, so instead of the end product looking like a mowed lawn it was just shorter on the average. And I also ended up with a lot of grass clippings in my sandals. I can safely wear sandals when using the reel mower without worrying some pebble or twig is going to fly out from under the deck and impale my big toe. It was a good feeling, the sensuality of wet green grass against my feet.

A few months back NPR ran a spot on American’s obsession with their lawns. I wanted to hear it, but somehow missed it. I’m befuddled at the passion people put into their lawns in this country, and apparently I’m not alone:

I’ve heard stories of snowbirds growing bluegrass lawns in Arizona, where it seems each household would subsequently need its own reservoir in the middle of this desert to keep such a thing green.

One would think that someone writing under the moniker of “The Aesthetic Elevator” would be thrilled at people’s passion for keeping a perfect lawn. My grandmother painstakingly plucks every weed from her bluegrass carpets, in the front and the back. I grew up watching her, a very classy lady, tend her turf on her hands and knees, depositing every uninvited piece of flora into a bucket at her side. And I do appreciate the results of such effort. Visually it is idyllic, harkening to that shifty American dream.

I grew up in Nebraska, where beautiful native grasses fill the prairie. Big Bluestem, Little Bluestem, Buffalo Grass. I now live in Arkansas. In my experience in Northwest Arkansas, lawns are 1) Less of a priority for most people, or 2) Nearly impossible to keep “pure.” I rarely see the Kentucky Bluegrass (actually native to Europe, Africa and Asia) down here that I walked on barefoot as a child. Our own lawn seems to be a mix of Bermuda and Fescue — splattered with scads of flowering weeds and some random chives.

I don’t feel the need to baby my own lawn into submission. Even if I tried, I’d have to fend off the moles which constantly rearrange the surface, creating hills and divots difficult for the little reel mower to navigate. In a different life I expect our idea of gardening and keeping a lawn will be quite different, and at the same time much more beautiful than our passion for fertilizer — in the words of Andy Whitman — can produce now.