The infamous Plastic Lawn of Barton Hills
One of the things Zippy and I do every day is, we more or less hook it around Zilkerland at a brisk clip for an hour or so, to see what we can see (or in Zippy’s case, to sniff what we can sniff. Chacun à son goût). We both enjoy the abundant Bohemian deposits and artifacts left lying around by the local citizenry. The deposits and artifacts are abundant because in my neighborhood it is customary to use one’s home and lawn as an expression of one’s inner nutjob.
Take the house with the black plastic front yard. Last year many were baffled by the sudden appearance of sheets of black plastic where the day before had flourished a lush South Austin lawn of St. Augustine, dandelions, and crabgrass. Why? Why?
I’ll tell you why. One fine dewy morning, the owner of this house woke up on a different side of the bed. She tossed aside her crazy quilt, threw open the window, and cried “Evil grass, sent by Klingons to kill me! You will pay!” Or possibly, “If I cover the yard with plastic, they won’t find the shallow graves.” And out she marched with the several rolls of black plastic she had been saving against just such a contingency. She spread this black plastic out over her yard and anchored it with big rocks.
That grass would die a slow, painful death while she watched from the porch, sipping soda through a straw. And no one would ever find the bodies.