Leaves of Grass

Ann Tiplady

Word Count 520

Everyone studying agriculture at the University of British Columbia was required to take Soil Science 101. It didn’t matter whether you were in animal science, plant science, food science, poultry science or soil science, we all had to take it. It was the only class the hundred or so of us were all in together.

It was interesting learning about clay versus silt versus sand, how soil structure varies, how air and water are part of that structure, and how a biologically active, microscopically thin layer of water surrounds every particle. An important lesson I learned was about not crushing soil, not working heavy machines or animals on soils that are wet and soft, because once squished, compacted soils don’t easily recover.

We also learned a little about soil nutrients. It was the most basic introductory class for novices to soil, so “a little” really is all we got. Nonetheless, I was empowered; I had new knowledge to share, and share I did.

My mother, however, with decades of her own gardening history, following in her father’s garden footprints – she still used his old tools, even ancient pruning saws so dull they should have been considered historical artifacts fit only for a museum – was not impressed. She was not receptive to my new knowledge.

Observing the bright green circles in the lawn, where Susie, our dog, had peed, I diagnosed a nitrogen deficiency in the soil. My mother wouldn’t hear of it. I insisted. She insisted. For once, though, I had some confidence in the face of her unhearing refusal to consider what I might have to say. I persisted. She became angry. My father watched, helpless. Neither would yield. Each retreated, admitting nothing.

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Days later, on a dull afternoon with rain threatening, I was home alone. Exploring in the garage I found an old bag of lawn fertilizer my dad had stashed in a corner. Taking the bag, with the small tin can inside, I went to the lawn at the front of the house, choosing the small lawn area beside the narrow sidewalk that led from the front around the side to the backyard gate. Everyone used this walkway every day to travel from the street, where we came from the bus or parked our cars, going around the house to enter through the basement door in the back. Holding the can lightly I carefully dribbled the small white fertilizer pearls into the grass in long lines, spelling my name right across the lawn. Shortly, rain washed the pellets in; now there was nothing to see.

A few weeks later, there was my name standing up tall in bright green grass making letters six feet tall across the lawn of dull, short grass. There it was: excellent proof of my argument. I was thrilled.

I said nothing though. They would see it. They walked there every day, so of course they would see it. I waited for someone to say something.

No one ever did. No one ever said anything about it, and we never discussed soil fertility again.

Ann was a wildlife biologist, then was a farmer, and now is a writer. She has been published in the Still Point Arts Quarterly and The Manifest Station, and her essay The Little Things That Run the World won Honorable Mention in the Writer’s Digest 92nd Annual Writing Competition. In addition to personal essays and true stories, Ann is working on a memoir about her time living and farming in Vermont. Find Ann at https://anntiplady.com