All plants are my plants.
A bad paraphrase of the Tamil saying "Yaadhum oore, yaavarum kelir" : a sentiment that conveys the sense of " All towns are ours, all men our kinsmen."
The lawns are stressed out, turning straw brown. This is the fault of the Scotts lawn monoculture, where they hawk bags of grass seed guaranteed to grow fast, stay green (if watered and fertilized with Scotts fertilizer, naturally). Only, we don't water, neither do the neighbors, barring a few who have installed timed sprinklers, or who bring out the hoses and temporary ones. Our lawn, which is a multicultural experience, composed largely of older fine fescue and some ryegrass, clover, dandelion patches, moss, low growing assorted wildflowers ( I hesitate to call them weeds), has weathered the heat spell with minimal fuss or watering, shaded by the large 'noble' trees on our lot.
Strange but true- I wistfully watched the gorgeous greenery of the Kentucky bluegrass lawns in early spring, but am having the last laugh as I watch those lawns turn to yellow, while our 'sad sack' of a lawn, untidy as it is, but shaded by massive maples and oaks, remains peacefully green in the midsummer heat.
There's a little fairy garden on the far end of one of the lots. Small scale plants, with a little brown bridge, a couple of arches and (presumably ceramic) toadstools for effect. It looks lovely, even though I see it from a distance of about 5 feet, hesitating to trespass on the mulch to get a closer look. Some day, perhaps I can persuade M to try making one of these. Or not. The charms of the internet and allure of mindless TV beckon over the heat and humidity of digging in dirt.