Frankengrass

Lawns in Hometown, America were delicate things. People, usually men, would spend their weekends caring for and obsessing over them, sitting up nights to admire them. They had to be fertilized, mowed and raked, all the while maintaining constant vigilance for the dreaded crabgrass. If all was done perfectly, you would wind up with a proper, well-manicured lawn that must not be walked on. Grass plants are tender and liable to die if tread upon.

The backyard of my childhood home was more mud than grass for just the reason that it couldn’t withstand stomping children’s feet. When I was finally old enough for “Keep off the grass!” to be reasonably enforceable, my father set about replanting the lawn with scientific precision. The ground was aerated and prepared and then the grass seed mixture was planted. It included Kentucky bluegrass which I did expect to be blue. It wasn’t.

Israeli grass is a whole different species. Not only will walking on it not kill it, you can’t kill it. At least, not for long. It always comes back. The stuff is relentless, growing runners with new grass plants on them that cannot be stopped. While mowing does give you the illusion of control, the problem is where the lawn meets the borders. There the tendrils advance without mercy, swallowing everything in their path. Like the Little Prince and his baobabs, if you relax your attention for even a moment you’re going to be inundated. The kibbutz gardeners do what they can to help. A few times a year a guy comes around with a tank of Agent Orange and sprays it around the borders, which does help for a little while. But it always comes back.

I don’t have any proof, but I suspect this grass is a mutant strain, the result of genetic engineering gone wrong. Maybe somebody, with the best of intentions, wanted to develop a variety that could withstand the Israeli climate and a few dozen tanks rolling over it. I’m just speculating. But having just spent the afternoon battling the tenacious tendrils, I’m convinced. This stuff has Mad Scientist written all over it.

Leaves of Grass

Just past the back of the garden, after the lawn, the boulders around the perimeter and the rosemary that grows on top of them, is a triangular section of dense, wheat-like ornamental grass. It's more than a meter high with beautiful seed heads that wave in unison in the breeze.

The odd bit is that, like the corn field in the film, "Field of Dreams", things go into it and things come out of it. But you never see them go in and then come out. I've watched pets including my own cats dive into it and since they always turn up for dinner I haven't worried. Yesterday I saw three of the neighbors' children gallantly fight their way in, the grass completely swallowing them up. As I continued with my task, namely, washing dishes, I heard their squeals and laughter so I knew they were in no danger. But I never actually saw them come out.

I don't mean to suggest that this is some Bermuda Triangle wannabe. I just cannot escape the feeling that something captivating or at least entertaining is happening there. Various species, dogs, cats and boys disappear, staying gone for quite a while, apparently having a high old time.

I remember as a child going with my friends to a wooded park near our homes. We would pick out a secluded spot bounded by trees where we could play our games. It was an adult-free, intrusion-free zone where for a few hours we were totally happy. I suspect the grassy triangle may be serving a similar purpose. But it will remain a mystery. I have no wish to intrude. Everyone needs a place to get away to now and then.