The Grass Is Always Greener Over the Septic Tank (4 page)

Eavesdropping (among young people) dropped off 75 percent but increased 86 percent among adults. And one second grader confronted his parents one night with, “You 1ittle devils, you. And you told me I was conceived without sin.”

Things had clearly gotten out of hand and we knew it. So, a meeting was called at the school to discuss the future of sex education.

“Frankly,” said the librarian, “I'm worried. Do you realize the new National Geographic has been in for three weeks and has not been checked out once by a third grader?”

We gasped. “The youngsters don't want to play Doctor and Nursie any more,” said a distraught father. “My son wants to open up his own office.”

“I'm afraid,” said Ken Kinsey, “that the impact of sex education goes even deeper. We now have before us the problem of dress code. It seems with the laxity of certain rules and the casualness with which we are regarding the human body, some youngsters are coming to school in various attire. Tonight, we have been asked to consider the outcome of displaying—[he swallowed hard)—the navel.”

The librarian sucked in her breath. The co-chairman cleared his throat and I grabbed for my son's sex manual to see if it had a double meaning.

“It seems,” continued Ken, “that many of our little girls have been wearing jeans that fit around the hips and shirts that hang just below the rib cage and there is a bare area in between that needs some clarification. Anyone have any ideas?”

“Well, I have always felt if the Good Lord had meant for people to go nude He would never have invented the wicker chair,” said one mother.

“That is a good point,” said Ken. “Anyone else?”

“Have we established what a navel is?” asked a teacher.

“I think it is safe to assume that most of us are familiar with the navel ...”

“Wait a minute,” said a mother, “there are navels and there are navels. I mean some are 'outies' and some are 'innies.' I personally find the outies disgusting.”

“That's strange,” said her husband, “I find them sexy.”

“You don't know how strange,” said his wife. “I have an 'innie' and demand to know where you've seen an 'outie.' ”

“Please people. Let's get back to the issue here. Should we permit the navel to be displayed in a classroom atmosphere?”

“Today the navel, tomorrow the buttock,” grumbled the math teacher.

“It seems to me,” said a parent, “that if lax dress codes are allowed to continue, we may be in for something that only the National Guard can handle.”

“I worry,” said a mother who had been sitting quietly, “that it will blow the lid off a whole can of emotions. I mean, how do you expect a six-year-old to stay in the lines when he colors if he is distracted by a bared navel sitting at the desk next to his.”

“That's a good point, Ethel,” said Ken.

“I see nothing wrong with navels,” said a militant in the rear. “Why are all of you so hung up over something us normal as a navel?”

“Navels are not on trial here,” interrupted Ken. "It's simply we must draw the line somewhere with the relaxing of morals among our young people.”

“So, if you're ashamed of your navel,” persisted the militant, “I'll put a Band-Aid over it.”

“What does the U.S. government say about navels?” asked a businessman.

“To my knowledge, there is no department at the moment that is conducting any sort of findings on the subject,” said Ken. “If we could just get back to the subject ...”

“If you ask me,” said a concerned mother, “I think by our condoning navels in a public-school building, we are lowering the age of puberty. Next thing you know, we will permit them to have acne before they are ten and lower their voices at nine. I say they are growing up too last. Let's save the navels for later when they can handle them and enjoy them like adults.”

There was a round of applause and a few in the back stood up and said, “Here, here.”

“Should we put it to a vote?” asked Ken. "Okay, all of you in favor of issuing a dress code in which navels must be covered, signify by saying, 'Aye' [a roar). Opposed? (One, 'You bet your sweet umbilical cord!')

“Now, the next thing on the agenda,” said Ken nervously, “is Miss Barker, who teaches the third-traders human sexuality, would like to have a lab ...”

I slipped out the back door. I wanted time to consider the ramifications, the objectives, the impact of bringing such a program within my child's learning processes. Also, to have my six-year-old explain to me what human sexuality is.

Saving the Recession from a Depression

Following World War II, when the nation began its migration to the suburbs, there was fear that the economy would give way to a period of depression.

There entered upon the scene three commodities destined to bring the country to its economic feet again: The Picture Window, the Green-Lawn Syndrome, and two teenage dolls, Barbie and Ken.

No one could have imagined the impact these three items had on the spending habits of the settlers. In retrospect, it was simply a matter of figuring the odds. Thirty-million suburbanites, all supporting and maintaining a picture window, green grass, and" two naked dolls—it would have brought any nation out of the darkness of despair and into prosperity once more.

The Picture Window

To build a house in the suburbs without at least one picture window was considered un-American.

I personally knew my heart would stop beating if I did not have one.

As I said to my husband, “Imagine! A window with nine feet of glass that would invite the sunshine in during the day and reflect the stars at night. That would reveal neighbors waving a friendly 'hello.' That would allow the gentle breezes of a summer night to come indoors and hold the snow of winter at bay with its frosty patterns on the glass. Who would need any form of entertainment with nature's panorama changing with the seasons. Who would need rewards in this life other than viewing happy children at play?”

“You got the picture window,” he said helplessly.

Two days later, I said, “The man is coming today to 1.over the picture window. It will cost $500.”

“Cover the window!” he gasped. “What about your 'inviting the sunshine in during the day and reflecting (lie stars at night?' ”

“That sun is blinding me. I can't get away from it. And I lie dog is beginning to tan. As for stars, forget it. The only tiling that window attracts at night are window peepers.”

A month later I informed my husband, “The furniture li

“But it's always been good enough for us.”

“Exactly, but is it good enough for the 'neighbors waving a friendly hello' through our picture window?”

“But I thought we got the windows covered.”

“You can't keep the curtains drawn on a picture window all of the time or people will think you have something to hide.”

Four months to the day, I casually mentioned the pic-lure window would need storm covering and screen. They would run about $400.

“Wait a minute,” he charged, “is this the same woman who said she 'was going to allow the gentle breezes of a summer night to come indoors and hold the snow of winter at bay with its frosty patterns on the glass'?”

“That's before I realized the summer breezes harbor mosquitoes that suck your blood. Besides, I've had it with those 'frosty patterns on the glass.' The window is causing frosty patterns on the children's lungs and our walls look like a waterfall.”

We were two weeks into summer when I informed my husband, “We are getting a liner to block out the light of our window so we can watch TV during the daytime. It will cost $150.”

His head jerked up sharply, “What happened to 'nature's panorama changing with the seasons before your eyes’?”

“Nature's panorama has deteriorated into a view of old Mr. Hudson framed in his picture window in his underwear scratching his stomach and picking his teeth with a matchbook cover.”

One night I met my husband at the door. “We are getting Picture Window insurance. It will cost $28 a year.”

“I don't believe this,” he said. “When did you become disenchanted with the 'rewards of viewing happy children at play'?”

“When Michael Ormstead's baseball came crashing through our picture window. Meanwhile, we will have to have this one replaced. It will cost $160.”

I had never seen my husband bite his necktie in half before.

The Suburban Lawn

Never, in the history of the world, have so many men sacrificed so much, so often, at such a price, for so little.

The green grass is what lured settlers to the wilderness in the first place. They wanted to cultivate a little patch of greenery that would tickle the feet of their barefooted babies, cushion their falls, and cradle them in the bosom of the soil.

It seemed incongruous in the quiet of an evening to hear a father pull his son close to him and say, “You cut across that lawn one more time, Gilbert, and I'm going to break every bone in your body.”

The suburban lawn not only became an obsession with the suburban husband, it became the very symbol of manhood. Not to have a lawn was like admitting you turned off the Super Bowl to take a nap, used deodorant shields in your T-shirts, or had training wheels on your I Harley-Davidson. Every casual greeting opened with: How's the lawn. Buddy?“ ”Hey, Frank, see you got your crabgrass on the run.“ Or ”Set your blade down an inch, Buck. We all did."

Keeping up with a couple of hundred lawn enthusiasts was not only back-breaking, it was downright expensive. No one knew it any better than one poor devil in Suburbian Gems who divorced his wife. His name was Lyle Link. The settlement was rumored to be the stiffest decision ever handed down in a court of law.

Lyle's wife received no alimony, no support whatsoever for the children, and she assumed payments on the 1 louse, the car, and the furniture.

Lyle got custody of the lawn.

It was like being on parole. He couldn't leave the state. He couldn't afford to remarry and there wasn't time to drink.

There were fertilizers, weed killers, maintenance, and keeping up with his neighbors. Lyle was spending more time at home than he ever did when he was married.

There wasn't a night he was not hauling bags of manure and nitrogen, trimming around walks and trees on his hands and knees, watering, mulching, and clipping.

Lyle started out with a hand mower, but eventually bowed to neighborhood pressure and got a rotary mower. This led to a lawn sweeper to pick up the grass, and an electric lawn trimmer to get close to the walk, and a spreader to evenly distribute new seed and fertilizer.

Every week there was some new gimmick to buy that sent everyone racing to the garden center. One evening .is Lyle was tooling around in his riding mower with the reclining bucket seats and the console dashboard—his automatic sprinkler creeping along silently over the green carpet, his hedges topped perfectly with his electric hedge clipper, his trees being fed automatically just the right amounts of iron and nitrogen—his neighbor dropped by and said, “Too bad about your lawn, Lyle.”

Lyle shut off his motor and paled slightly. “What do you mean ,'Too bad about my lawn'?”

“The whole neighborhood is talking about it. I thought you knew.”

“Knew what? For God's sake tell me.”

“Your lawn has root rot nematode.”

Lyle's eyes misted. “Are you sure?”

“Didn't you see the little brown spots that never seemed to get better when you watered them?”

“And it's such a young lawn,” said Lyle. “How long does it have?”

“With no bicycles, sleds, or kids running over it, I give it about a year.”

“Well, we're not going to give up,” said Lyle, squaring his shoulders, “they come up with new things every day. We're going to fight!” he said, heading out toward the garden center.

“Hey,” yelled his neighbor, “maybe this isn't the time to bring it up, but I heard your wife is getting remarried.”

Lyle turned slowly, disgust written plainly on his face. “What kind of an animal are you?” he asked, his voice quavering with emotion. “First you come here and tell me my lawn has root rot nematode and there's nothing anyone can do to save it and at best it only has a year to live, and then you babble on about my wife remarrying. Who cares? Don't you understand? If my lawn dies, I don't want to go on living any more. Leave me alone.”

As his neighbor retreated, Lyle got down on his hands and knees and sobbed, “We'll travel. That's what we'll do - just you and me. We'll visit the White House lawn, the grounds at Mt. Vernon, maybe upper New York State where the grass is green most of the time and you can make new friends ...”

Barbie and Ken

Tho real lifesaver of the economy was a pair of teenage i lolls who appeared ironically one Christmas stacked (excuse the expression) among the baby dolls who burped, ate, cried, wet, walked, and were as sexless as a stick of gum.

My daughter picked Barbie up off the counter and exclaimed, “Look, Mommy, here is a doll that looks just like you.”

I checked out the two-and-a-half-inch bust, the three-inch hips, and the legs that looked like two filter tips without tobacco and said, “She looks like she just whipped through puberty in fifteen minutes.”

“I want her,” my daughter whined.

Barbie cost $5.98 in the buff, so we purchased a little dress, a pair of pumps, a bra, and a pair of briefs that came to $6.95.

“Aren't we going to buy her a girdle?” asked my daughter.

“Let's wait until she eats and see if she needs one,” I said.

If any of us believed for a moment that Barbie was going to be happy as a simple housewife, we were in for a surprise. Barbie was a swinger and she needed the wardrobe to do it.

Within a week, she had three lounge outfits ($5.95 each), an entire pool ensemble ($4.95), two formals ($7.95 each), a traveling suit ($6.95), and skating outfit ($5.00).

One afternoon as I was on my hands and knees fishing Barbie's beach ball out of the sweeper bag, my daughter announced, “Barbie's lonely.”

“Terrific!” I said. “Why don't you mail her to Camp Pendleton. And send her satin sheets with her.”

“I think we ought to buy Ken.”

There was something weird about Ken, but I couldn't put my finger on it. He was a taller version of Barbie who came wearing a jock strap and an insincere smile. He cost $5.98. Within a week, his wardrobe consisted of tennis attire ($7.95), jump suit ($4.95), white tuxedo ($10.95), and a terry cloth robe ($3.95), plus a cardboard car ($12.95). As I explained to my husband, “You don't expect them to sit around night after night passing a beach ball back and forth, do you?”