There it sat,my new lawn, wide and green, soaking up barrels of fungicide, fertilizer and sweat from the minions who trimmed and coddled it. Petrochemically intensive, it mocked my Earth Mother stance. But what could I do? I had demolished smaller lawns by planting native plants and heaping on layers of pine straw but now I had a Bed and Breakfast that depended on a beautiful view. How could I stay true to my ideals and also stay in business?
I decided to use the woodpile strategy that was told to my by Brother Lamar, a Baptist preacher in Day, Florida. He told a story that goes as follows: Once a scrawny, timid kid was spending the night with his grandfather in the grandfather's cabin down on the Sewanee River. The grandpa asked the kid to go and get wood from the woodpile for the evening fire. The kid walked to the door and looked out a the yawning blackness and wailed, " It's too durn dark out thar." The grandpa said, " Can you see to take one step." "Yep," said the kid. "OK" said the grandpa," Then take it." The kid did."Now, can you see to take another one?" "Yep," said the kid. " Take it,"said grandpa. And,eventually that is how the frightened kid got to the woodpile and returned with the oak logs.
I like that story because it works in so many arenas for me. And it worked on the lawn. I took it one step at a time and the journey has been exciting and exhausting. When garden mavens tour the UrbFarm, which is how I refer to the lawn, they are amazed at the crops I grow and the fact I use no pesticides. But it all started with one step in the dark.
I took the step right after I bought the business. I needed a small brick patio( aka walkway) to get guests around to the backyard. The digging of the patio-- which was composed of antique road bricks I had collected over twenty years--created a pile of dirt. I had the workman ( actually a special ed teacher who moonlighted in landscaping)spread the dirt in a halfmoon under the oak tree. This simple act became a defining feature of the UrbFarm---build the beds up.
The next helpful step was the building of the berm or bermette since it is small. Once again an orphan pile of dirt appeared at the same time four antique azaleas were thrown out on the street when my neighbor decided on a yard redecoration. I drug the flowery giants home and plopped them on top of the ground. Too tired to dig a hole I mounded dirt around them and thus the bermette was born. It became an important feature in hurricane times.
As the year went on, I took up hunks of lawn and installed a labyrinth, a butterfly garden, a blueberry field, a strawberry field , and four fruit trees.
The windy edges of hurricanes Frances, Jeanie and one whose name I have forgotten, destroyed almost everything in October 2004. The butterfly garden was annihilated as completely as if a small nuclear device had been detonated in the left hand corner of the property. The loquat tree lost her head in my neighbor's pool; the 300 sq feet of excellent pine bark mulch became tiny rafts for fire ants. 2,000 board feet of other folk's docks washed up on my lawn. An anthropologist, reviewing the storm born detritus would say Jacksonville was made entirely out of pressure treated lumber and the inhabitants drank cases of Diet Coke.
Out of the mist came the next Garden Angel. He was temporarily domiciled in the local halfway house where he was attempting to stay clean and sober. He had a small moustache, a genteel manner and was willing to work as hard as I can. Within one week, we had the place cleaned up---boards cut, loquat tree reattached to the earth, pine bark cleaned up.
Now, the question was what to do. Because I had lots of bricks I ask the G.A. to look at a picture of a native American World Wheel and see if he could make one on the grave of the butterfly garden. Then I wandered into the house. That afternoon, I had the Wheel. In the days to come, I had a Celtic Cross, a winding path, a wonderful hexagon patio, a walkable rosary and an herb wheel. The man was a genius with street bricks and concrete hexagons.
The lawn was disappearing...step by step. In the little gardens appeared lettuce, tomatoes, eggplants, carrots, sorrel , arugula but the cost was high. Running the business and working in the garden was wearing me out.
Enter, the Tenant Farmers.
The four of them came from the east from that section of town that grew camellias not cabbage, orchids not okra. They liked the idea of growing fresh food and mentioned ---with deep sighs---the fact that their carefully sculpted suburban vistas lawns were too shady for collards. Sensing the possibility of help, I offered a sunny section of my lawn for their use. They liked the idea. Thus began the adventure.
My guidelines were few. Everything must be organic. Everything must look good. No weedy patches. No concrete butterflies. No animals.
The TF's worked hard. Soon their patches were covered with fragrant lemon balm, shiny purple eggplants and filigree carrots. It was good to have another body working on the lawn. Folks that had been mere acquaintance became friends, bonding over basil, commiserating over collard loss.
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