Letter to the Editor

Dear Editor,

Homeowners in the desert need to get rid of their lawns. The lawn is a human frivolity, created to display a person’s attempt to achieve a certain level of social status. An entire industry has even been established to create and maintain this extravagance. Lawns serve no environmental purposes but instead contribute greatly to a waste of natural resources, damage the natural habitat, and bring harm to the humans that create them.

America’s obsession with the perfect lawn has created generations of people who are oblivious to the negative impacts these lawns create. Their desire for beauty and status blinds them to the realities of what they are doing to the environment.  Humans are wasting a huge amount of valuable culinary water on decorative lawns, especially in states like Utah where this water is not in abundance. The entire lawncare industry wastes the time of many producers, such as manufacturers, advertisers, retailers, transporters, and local lawn care companies. This wastefulness is only made worse by taking into consideration all the plastic packaging for products, metal and fuel for machinery, and materials for sprinkler systems.  The pesticides used to maintain lawns consist of harmful chemicals that don’t harm just the natural habitats, but the indigenous animals themselves and are responsible for a quickly declining bee population. Synthetic fertilizers used on lawns are water soluble and dissolve into the local water supply after being washed off of lawns.

We can choose to ignore these issues or we can make a change in the way that we think about the outdoor spaces that we enjoy. Lawns are wasteful frivolities that serve no productive purpose other than being play-spaces that could be recreated with eco-friendly, provident resources. When lawns are eliminated, the natural environment will be improved, billions of dollars and irreplaceable resources will be saved, and precious lives will be preserved. 

Sincerely,

A Concerned Citizen

Drowning in our Lawn Culture

    The rain pattered against my clear plastic umbrella as I shuffled along the hiking path, the ground quickly growing muddy. I glanced up at the mountain, scanning for any forming waterfalls among the crimson rocks. I was a bit too early to see any, so I perched myself on top of a black lava rock, its perforations not yet filled with rainwater yet.

    The clouds roiled above in varying undulations of grey. The water they showered down on the desert landscape was so precious to such a dry land. Our last rainstorm had been over a month ago, which was common for Southern Utah. We were experiencing a somewhat dry year; snowpack the winter before had been quite low, and residents all over the state of Utah had been urged to cut back on their daily water usage in order to conserve the meager stores we had.  

    After sitting for quite some time, I realized the rain might not be intense enough to yield waterfalls, and I headed back the way I came. The sidewalk started up again, and I dodged the overflowing gutters to step onto it. I walked until I came across a neighborhood again, but what I saw incensed me. The rain was still drizzling down overhead, and yet the sprinklers at every house in this cookie-cutter neighborhood were still spraying at full-blast on their perfectly manicured lawns. This is extremely wasteful and thoughtless of the homeowners.

    “The American Obsession with Lawns,” written in the Scientific American shares my view against lawn culture. It discusses the history of lawn culture and what’s toxic about it. Though at the same time, it also sympathizes with the need for green spaces and marvels at the dedication that a truly pristine lawn demands. According to this article, the cultural interest with lawns immigrated from Europe with the wealthy settlers and has been a symbol of prosperity and success ever since. What is crucial to note, yet extremely interesting, is that lawns began as a necessity to feed livestock and have grown into a purely aesthetic luxury. These perfect expanses of grass serve no purpose except to show status. They display a level of success at which the owner has both the time and money to cultivate and support such a waste of water and energy.

    This article has led my decision to write about the toxicity of lawn culture, especially in the desert. The article makes valid points about both sides of the lawn debate. While I do agree that lawns are a hallmark in the classic American dream, I stand with the opinion that they are a waste of resources, especially since they only serve to promote the image of the owner. Instead of fueling this culture, we should convert our landscaping to that which matches our surroundings. In the desert, we should have rocky yards with local flora, such as succulents or shrubs that need only natural watering. We need to care more about our planet than we care about our personal image.

Article Cited:

D'Costa, Krystal. “The American Obsession with Lawns.” Scientific American Blog Network, 3 May 2017, blogs.scientificamerican.com/anthropology-in-practice/the-american-obsession-with-lawns/.

Tracking Rabbits in a Dry Land

           Ty’s white paws pitter pattered against the black asphalt walking path. His tail swung with excitement as he tugged against his leash, overcome with joy at the opportunity to stop and smell the world. He stopped to sniff at some sagebrush, so I took the opportunity to gaze up at the red mountain. It was a clear, early morning, and the air was fresh with the coolness that nighttime brought. A rustle in nearby bushes caught my attention, and a small grey rabbit darted away. A moment too late, I realized what would happen. Ty took off like a bullet, with my arm still attached, and he yanked me into a sprint after the poor cottontail. After finding my footing and pulling my dog away from the chase, I reveled at the fate of the rabbit. Though my dog didn’t catch it, it would probably be in the same danger all its life. These rabbits live too close to human settlement for their comfort because the natural washes which supply water to the plants they eat run right through developed areas. When these washes fill with rainwater, a large portion of the water comes from runoff from the streets. This runoff is usually dirty and cloudy.

           My dog sufficiently calmed, we turned onto a path that led away from the roads, deeper into the red dirt, cacti, and black lava rock. We passed another curve of the natural wash, but I paused in surprise. The plants that grew at the edges and bottom of the wash were lush and thick. They were green, unlike the stubby dry bushes that grew near the roads, and I even spotted some flowering desert willow.

           It was shocking to see the comparison between the two portions of the wash that were in contact with different water sources. It reminded me of the article “Oases in a Dry Land,” which discussed the human impact on the Colorado River. Continued diversion of water from the river lowered its banks, negatively impacting the foliage that grew along it. The decreasing of the plant life, which is a habitat for numerous birds and animals in the area, put pressure on these bird species. We see a scale model in our own backyard of Southern Utah. As the author, David Owen, did in “Oases in a Dry Land,” I urge readers to consider the effect that we have on our natural desert wildlife, and how even the slightest things we do can harm these creatures. 

Where are all the children?

As my footsteps crunched along the hiking trail, the warm air rustled through my hair, bringing relief from the lingering heat of the day. The cloudless sky was a deep blue, the sunset tinging the western edge of the horizon bright yellow. Against the azure backdrop stood the red mountains, iron-orange rocks painting a vivid contrast. I smiled as an elderly couple with walking sticks in hand strolled past me. All the way up the canyon I knew walked other adults, all taking in the sights and energy of the mountains. Among them, though, one would find difficulty trying to find a child. Where were all the children?

              I passed the sand dunes, their golden grains glinting in the dying light. A group of college students sprinted at each other, erupting in laughter when they tripped through the sand. Their game was forgotten as they dumped the orange grit out of their shoes and shook it out of their hair. Scanning the sandy stretch, I saw no one else enjoying the dunes; no families, no kids. Where were all the children?

              Walking deeper into the canyon, the gentle slopes of white boulders caught my eye. I remembered taking hikes with my family when I was younger; my siblings and I would race to the top of these rock formations, all trying to make it up first. The natural playgrounds still tempted me, but it appeared that I was the only one affected. No children clambered over the rocks, trying to fit themselves into the shallow caves and depressions. Where were all the children?

                My recent hikes up through Snow Canyon left me with a meditative state of mind, due to the sheer magnificence and beauty of nature. However, I still had the question lingering in my mind: Where were all the children? It struck me as odd that although the park was abundant with people enjoying what it had to offer, there were virtually no children. I feel like there’s a problem here. Why are parents not bringing their kids to our beautiful state parks? Is it because our kids are spending too much time on devices? Is their free time monopolized by extracurriculars? Is their only outside time spent on a ballfield in organized sports? How do we give these children the freedom to enjoy the beauty of nature on their own?