A Compromise

A generous patch of bur clover and hairy vetch have migrated from our yard, where they are much appreciated, into the front ditch, where they are not. It seems from one weekend to the next, the clover went from dark, flat blotches on the ground to knee-high mounds. If I let it go too long our neighbor is likely to take it upon himself to mow our side of the ditch. His lawn care techniques are merciless. No diversity allowed. He has the arsenal developed from WWII to combat any invaders to his St. Augustine. We like this neighbor. He is a good guy. We just have a different view when it comes to interacting with the natural world. So where our property meets, I compromise. The ditch and a strip of our yard that abuts his, gets mowed. The rest of our yard remains a wildlife sanctuary.


The clover in the ditch is too dense to mow. I decide to hand pull it, being careful not to snap the stalks of vetch that are growing along the ditch and climbing up our fence. The vetch is filled with showy, purple flowers. The flowers are tubular and grow in stacked pairs from a single stalk. I sit on the culvert with my legs swung over into the ditch, knee deep clover, my nose exhaust pipe level to the cars passing a few feet away. I sit there quite awhile, with the too hot sun on my back, admiring the vetch flowers and avoiding pulling up this dark, lush, cool to the touch, perfectly good plant. Vetch and clover are cover crops used to repair compacted, mineral depleted earth. Not only are they breaking up compaction, they are injecting nitrogen into the soil, creating an excellent habitat for a variety of creatures and doing a fine job of smothering the good-for-nothing St. Augustine grass that has migrated into the ditch from the neighbor's yard.

I really hate pulling up this clover. We used to play hide-n-seek in it when we were kids. There was a huge vacant lot next door to our house covered with it like some thick, lumpy blanket. The clover was high enough, so that all a kid had to do while the seeker covered his eyes and counted to ten, was run as far as the count of nine then drop down and disappear into a clover mound. It was great fun to lay in the cool, clean smelling green, staring up at the sky, anticipating that any second your friend would step on you before seeing you. You had to spring up quickly before his dirty, shoeless, summer foot touched you or, tag, you're it.