Take, for example, my newest oddity, I'm giddy about moss. Right. Moss. Just simple moss. I'm like, smile ear to ear, do a little dance excited about moss. I don't even know why. I'm really so very weird. Normal people are delighted when they see puppies or roses, but moss is what gets me off.
Proudly, I have passed the love to my daughter. She takes great pleasure in pointing moss out on our dog walks. She's got the eye, that one. She can spot it a block away, hidden in a crack on the sidewalk. She'll stop whatever she's doing to talk about it. Alice was skipping enthusiastically when I took her and Hatta on a mission to steal moss from a nearby hiking trail.
I know, who steals moss? Who even wants moss? Aren't most people trying to kill it? All very normal questions, but I've already admitted I'm not completely normal.
Living in a city rowhome, my front yard is small and flanked by insanely large ginkgo trees. It's shaded, very shaded. Grass barely grows. For two years I have tried growing a lush lawn that would make the neighbors jealous to no avail. This year, I'm embracing my individualism and going against the grain. I'm growing a moss lawn.
I flirted with the idea after a three day rain spell this spring when moss began growing in a low spot in the middle of the yard and in between nearby sidewalk cracks. I wondered what the kind neighbor, who mows everyone's lawn, would think when he got to mine. Would he be stumped or incredibly thankful to have one less yard to mow? I fantasized what passersby would think when they saw moss in place of grass, "Wow! She's a genius to think out of the box. Look at them finding such an easy solution to an unsightly lawn. And so green and plush!" In my head, it's all accolades.
I'm pretty sure I know what people think when they walk past my house, "What in the world is this plot of dirt supposed to be? Why does that silly girl keep watering the dirt?" I'm not concerned. I'm sure by next year my little plot of
I'll still be quirky, and my lawn will be impressive.