When I was a kid growing up in suburban Long Island, grass was that short green stuff covering everyone’s front lawn, and most dads spend their weekends pulling out crabgrass instead of playing with their kids.
I presume we got this idea of lawn grass from the great houses of England, whose sprawling fronts yards swooped downhill for acres–but the whole notion should have stayed there. It was and still is a bad idea to have little squares of short grass in front of suburban houses : it’s ugly and stupid, requiring lots of time and nasty chemicals to keep it looking decent. (In case you haven’t noticed, I hate lawn grass.)
But there’s another kind of grass that has me very excited–the native grasses cropping up in home and public gardens everywhere, and boy is it eloquent to behold.
All these grassy thoughts came to me yesterday. After enjoying an elegant (but uneven) lunch at Bouley to celebrate my birthday, The Sweetie and I strolled south along the Hudson to Battery Park. It was perfect weather for a Libra: not too hot and not too cold–the kind of clear day whose perfection can bring tears to your eyes.
The Sweetie was his usual sweet and patient self as I oood and ahhhd over the plantings and took 150 pictures.
We walked west on Chambers street and crossed over the westside highway on the Tribeca Bridge (who knew there was one?) and found ourselves in Rockefeller Park where Tom Otterness’ little people and funny animals live above ground (parted from their relatives who frolic on the 14th Street subway platform of the C train; see my blog on those delightful creatures).
Then the magical grasses began to appear, swaying in the wind and glistening in the light. I couldn’t get over how tall the grasses has grown since the spring. Their plumes were cotton candy for eyes, accompanying us all the way down to Battery Park: