“The bottom line is that consumers do not know all the questions associated with pesticide use. Most important, no one has all the answers--not the manufacturers, not the EPA” Andrew Cuomo, Attorney General of New York State (1995)
Hybrid cars, renewable resources, conserving energy, organic foods and holistic health products-in the midst of an ever-greening populace, suburbanites are turning green with envy over the verdant and lushly loathed lawns of their neighbor. The irony lies just under foot, literally.
Lawns, lawn mowing and lawn care products alike contribute to the very environmental dilemmas that Americans are so popularly strident in fighting. In the sake of going green, we must look closer to home in making even subtle changes in our daily lives. Some of these changes may be in long strides such as deciding to invest in energy efficient home building materials, purchasing a hybrid car, forsaking the backseat (and large shopping purchases from the natural food source of one’s choice.) Others may simply choose to reuse shopping bags, bicycle to work and forgo personal hygiene chemicals and hang their laundry on a line. All viable and widely practiced “go green” solutions, yet whether holding an earth-praise rally on the city greens or spreading a blanket, lowering to sit and unwrap your organic veggie pocket in the local park, we must consider your act as a regression, a transgression against the very movement you follow to the farmer’s market.
According to Environment &Human Health Inc, a non-profit that is made up of doctors, public health professionals and policy experts committed to the reduction of environmental health risks to individuals, the maintained lawn as we know it covers 30 million acres in the U.S., over which 80 million pounds of pesticides are poured. That is ten times the amount of chemicals per acre that the American farmer uses to secure his crops for the family table. The EHH also reports that common lawn and garden chemicals handled directly by the household have been linked to mutations, birth defects and reproductive issues alike in lab animals. Ewe!
So health conscious and are we, those that would allow our children, pets and peers tread on chemical laden lawns, some of which are frequently watered, allowing the poisonous runoff seep into our streams, rivers and estuaries, further harming our environs. Not only are we affecting ourselves and immediate neighbors (check your wells), the animal world is also feeling the trickle. Two headed frogs and the dead bird (a Canadian study linked pesticides to 3 deaths per acre on farmlands) on your lawn wish to have a word over their polluted homesteads.
The University of Michigan Health System reported in 2003 that 75,000Americans, of which 10,000 are children, are injured by lawn maintenance equipment. In an ABC News segment airing in September of 2007, Young Henry Burmester had a harrowing and avoidable ordeal, an ordeal which most would not be as courageous in countenance after.
"I was behind the lawn mower," Henry said. "It backed up. I tried to push it back, but it was too strong. It pushed me down.", "At least my other foot got saved. But my toes -- they're way up in heaven by now."
If only Henry’s father had fought the societal pressure placed upon him to manicure his lot, to cultivate and nurture what really never belonged underfoot in the first place. The typical grass seed used, and researched in the early 20th century by the U.S. Department of Agriculture and the U.S. Golf Association, is a mix of Bermudan, African and European grasses.
Not only is the lawn mower an accident statistic tally-ticker, it has been an unforgivably polluter of our atmosphere. A Swedish study reported in 2001 that a typical lawn mower, ran for one hour, emits about the same amount of air pollutants as a 100 mile automobile trip. Without the aid of proper emission control devices commonly found in a car, these small engines produce big clouds of carbon monoxide and other nasty air pollutants. Imagine, every homeowner, in every neighborhood, in every town taking a Sunday drive…a 100 mile Sunday drive, every weekend. Yes, and that omits those of us who mow more frequently.
To green, or not to green, can we be ecologically friendly without having to embrace the earth-tones of a dirt lawn, a bark-mulch moat around our abodes? Earth Easy.com, a environmental sustainability website offers many cost effective (taking in the eco-costs of a lawn already expressed) alternatives to the traditional and trendy turf lawn. Clover, which needs no mowing, is excellent groundcover that requires little and remains green even through harsh conditions…May also provide luck. Results may vary.
Native flora, wild grasses and flowers can be charming. What coziness could be found on a bad of an expanse of moss? Go Zen with a rock garden. Get rustic with hay, make a second income with alfalfa. Strawberries can be sweet yard filler while a blackberry bramble can provide much sought privacys.
From land, sea and air, the lawn mower to the emergency room, lawns and lawn care can be the source of trauma, both physical and environmental. To end this rein, to cause a great “green” coup would be a bio-boon. Whatever you choose, the cleaner air, silent afternoons and the quieting of phantom limbs everywhere will be your reward.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Lemmings To The Cliff
The keys rattle. The hand reaches. Yes, yes. Leash is off the hook….and the crowd goes wild. The beasts are at the gate, gnashing and moaning. As the knob turns all eyes are on the door. At the first stir of the hinges…. BANG, they’re off! Three unique tom-tom tattoos of paws on the stairs beat in rapid succession. I am pulled along not only by the tenacious sense of mission imbued by the rushing, yelping team, but also by the tensile tethers of these fervent mongrels.
The mission reads like a need-to-know dossier. As the Cerebus yanks me toward the awaiting chariot, these three dogs-become-one do not register that their deliverance to an unwelcome future lies within the windowed confines of the Ford. One-two-three, in they go, each grinning, cheeks held upward with the wild thoughts running behind puppy-dog eyes. The Alpha male, outwardly serene against the high-pitched whine and cry of his companions, shoots me a “The troops will be ready for anything” look across the faded, grey bench seat. Yes, good soldier, no bridge too far. Right.
While we make our way through after-school traffic, with the windows cranked and the radio’s music being carried out, sharing the wind with tri-colored sheddings, the two smaller dogs scramble at the passenger window. Click. Clack. Click. Clack. The door locks are aptly placed for paws. Looking over at the baby of the bunch, he stares through me as if catatonic, his lines blurred with the tremors of potential energy trapped inside. The few miles to the groomer is uneventful, though to hear it from my passengers it was akin to any amusement ride. In fact, for these three unknowing victims, this rollercoaster ends in their own personal hell (of which, I as their betrayer belong in the ninth circle next to Cain).
As I drift the truck into the parking lot, I sneak a glance at these three poor lambs, eyebrows raised, noses searching the air for what lies ahead. Is it naiveté that emboldens them? Is it bravery, that fire under their collars that stirs them forward against the window? Or is it a madness, yes, truly that look, the foaming, open, maniacal grin they wear, begging me, willing my hand to reach for the door latch. “Put me in the game coach, I’m ready!” I have to turn my eyes away, I am shamed.
Pop! Like a pan of hirsute Jiffy-Pop, we explode onto the scene. The truck’s door releases, the dogs come out of the shoot running. The whirling of the three retractable leashes buzz into the afternoon’s calm. Had my seatbelt still been buckled my arms would have felt as Hemingway’s did on the Marlin hunt. But unlike game fish, these dogs are creatures of scent and must pause frequently and as the groomer did not spare the expense of good landscaping I am quick to regain control of the situation.
Even as we approach the door these courageous canines retain their intensity. Pulling, leaping at the glass door, sluicing it with their juicy curiosity, they still remain dim to what lies just on the other side. I cinch the leashes tighter and step behind them, it could occur that one or more may attempt a coward’s getaway once inside. The barbarians are pounding at the gate; scraping, pawing and gnawing, the invaders seek entry. Gaining it, they rush forth, sounding off in anticipation of loot, booty and fortune. Surprise.
What these seekers find on the other side is the sing-song siren call of a dog-loving receptionist, whose brainsick smile gains her no quarter . In fact, her earnestness in addressing the arrival of dogs is so unsettling in its tempo and decibel that I, myself am uneasy. Moonstruck, touched, gaga perhaps, she rushes out, her grin too big, her eyes too wide, and takes a leash. Like a reluctant and furry balloon, plucked from its bunch, one dog at random is whisked to the back room. In all truth, this may well likely be a dog’s House of Pain, a twisted and tortuous laboratory where God knows what happens…though you’d think the regularity of our visits would give insight to the goings on. The backward glance, the pleading eyes of each dog in turn; it would seem otherwise.
One, two, three, they go in, they come out. What evils befell them behind the closed doors is forgotten as soon as I lead them, closely clipped and coifed toward the exit. Their step sprightly, the wide, toothy, grinning masks back in place. The truck in the parking lot gleams to match the sparkle in their eyes. What magical and wondrous places will it take them? Home? The park? Donut shop? The veterinarian? Whatever awaits them, it will be met with unmatched and unquestioned zeal. Like lemmings to the cliff, these three adventurers will march arduously onward to whatever lay ahead
The mission reads like a need-to-know dossier. As the Cerebus yanks me toward the awaiting chariot, these three dogs-become-one do not register that their deliverance to an unwelcome future lies within the windowed confines of the Ford. One-two-three, in they go, each grinning, cheeks held upward with the wild thoughts running behind puppy-dog eyes. The Alpha male, outwardly serene against the high-pitched whine and cry of his companions, shoots me a “The troops will be ready for anything” look across the faded, grey bench seat. Yes, good soldier, no bridge too far. Right.
While we make our way through after-school traffic, with the windows cranked and the radio’s music being carried out, sharing the wind with tri-colored sheddings, the two smaller dogs scramble at the passenger window. Click. Clack. Click. Clack. The door locks are aptly placed for paws. Looking over at the baby of the bunch, he stares through me as if catatonic, his lines blurred with the tremors of potential energy trapped inside. The few miles to the groomer is uneventful, though to hear it from my passengers it was akin to any amusement ride. In fact, for these three unknowing victims, this rollercoaster ends in their own personal hell (of which, I as their betrayer belong in the ninth circle next to Cain).
As I drift the truck into the parking lot, I sneak a glance at these three poor lambs, eyebrows raised, noses searching the air for what lies ahead. Is it naiveté that emboldens them? Is it bravery, that fire under their collars that stirs them forward against the window? Or is it a madness, yes, truly that look, the foaming, open, maniacal grin they wear, begging me, willing my hand to reach for the door latch. “Put me in the game coach, I’m ready!” I have to turn my eyes away, I am shamed.
Pop! Like a pan of hirsute Jiffy-Pop, we explode onto the scene. The truck’s door releases, the dogs come out of the shoot running. The whirling of the three retractable leashes buzz into the afternoon’s calm. Had my seatbelt still been buckled my arms would have felt as Hemingway’s did on the Marlin hunt. But unlike game fish, these dogs are creatures of scent and must pause frequently and as the groomer did not spare the expense of good landscaping I am quick to regain control of the situation.
Even as we approach the door these courageous canines retain their intensity. Pulling, leaping at the glass door, sluicing it with their juicy curiosity, they still remain dim to what lies just on the other side. I cinch the leashes tighter and step behind them, it could occur that one or more may attempt a coward’s getaway once inside. The barbarians are pounding at the gate; scraping, pawing and gnawing, the invaders seek entry. Gaining it, they rush forth, sounding off in anticipation of loot, booty and fortune. Surprise.
What these seekers find on the other side is the sing-song siren call of a dog-loving receptionist, whose brainsick smile gains her no quarter . In fact, her earnestness in addressing the arrival of dogs is so unsettling in its tempo and decibel that I, myself am uneasy. Moonstruck, touched, gaga perhaps, she rushes out, her grin too big, her eyes too wide, and takes a leash. Like a reluctant and furry balloon, plucked from its bunch, one dog at random is whisked to the back room. In all truth, this may well likely be a dog’s House of Pain, a twisted and tortuous laboratory where God knows what happens…though you’d think the regularity of our visits would give insight to the goings on. The backward glance, the pleading eyes of each dog in turn; it would seem otherwise.
One, two, three, they go in, they come out. What evils befell them behind the closed doors is forgotten as soon as I lead them, closely clipped and coifed toward the exit. Their step sprightly, the wide, toothy, grinning masks back in place. The truck in the parking lot gleams to match the sparkle in their eyes. What magical and wondrous places will it take them? Home? The park? Donut shop? The veterinarian? Whatever awaits them, it will be met with unmatched and unquestioned zeal. Like lemmings to the cliff, these three adventurers will march arduously onward to whatever lay ahead
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