From the moment the first green shoots poke up until the last crackle underfoot, I vacillate between embarrassment and pride at the state of our yard.
My husband and I are cruel stewards: instead of letting our grass die, we make it suffer. Moments before the once-green swords buckle in defeat, we drag out a hose. We may not be “lawn people” but dammit, we have enough pride to prevent precious Montana topsoil from blowing to North Dakota.
