Shrubbery Shenanigans
Shrubbery Shenanigans
It’s that time of the year… the time when neighbors can be found in their yards intensely pruning and planting like they’re saving the planet, one petunia at a time.
They’ve got shrubs sheared into shapes that look suspiciously like celebrities. Is that one Ryan Gosling? It’s unsettling.
Every time I think, “Well, surely they’ve peaked”, they emerge at dawn, armed with artisanal compost and heirloom seeds. At this point, I’m fully expecting to wake up to a botanical garden in our neighborhood with a gift shop and guided tours.
Some neighbors don’t mow. They “manage turf.” They speak in hushed tones about nitrogen ratios and blade height like they’ve been summoned to testify before Congress.
I once overheard a guy say, “You can’t cut Kentucky bluegrass below 3.25 inches this time of year.” Meanwhile, I’m just trying to avoid dirt patches the size of quilts.
Spring features coordinated tulips arranged like judges are coming, summer brings symmetrical hydrangeas arranged with laser-guided precision, fall rolls in with pumpkins displayed like a museum exhibit, and by December the entire property is visible from space.
It’s like they’re training for the Landscaping Olympics, while I’m still trying to unkink our garden hose. Our shrubs are technically alive, but only in the way a battery-powered toy you haven’t touched in years still works if you hit it hard enough.
There’s a silent mulch competition happening in this town, and you can drive down the street and instantly tell who’s who. Black mulch homes look like they have laminated maintenance binders. Brown mulch homes host tasteful barbecues and say things like, “We just like to keep it natural.” Red mulch homes feel like they might own a disco ball.
Black mulch people look at brown mulch people with visible disappointment, brown mulch people pretend not to notice, and red mulch people are festive and happy to look the other way. Probably waving as you drive by and wearing a concert T-shirt from 1998.
There are households where the mulch lines are so crisp they could be used to teach geometry at Windham High. I once tried edging. It looked less like landscaping and more like I’d lost a fight with a shovel.
As part of the suburban ecosystem, every neighborhood has a Lawn Whisperer. He walks over, squints at your lawn, kneels, grabs a handful of soil like he’s inspecting truffles in Tuscany. “Your pH is off,” he says quietly. I didn’t know lawns had emotions. He recommends a product that comes in a bag with a bald eagle on it and promises “Total Turf Domination.”
A neighbor once told me gardening brings her “inner peace.” I also enjoy calm achieved through a combination of denial, selective ignoring of the yard, and an afternoon nap.
We have another neighbor that doesn’t leave his yard from March to November. We once drove by and thought, “Wow, he’s not outside today.” Then suddenly he popped out of a hole like a caffeinated gopher.
If you spot me mowing our wild savanna this summer, please know my only goal is to finish before the mower bursts into flames or I get distracted by a bee and abandon the whole operation. There will be no celebration, no beer commercial slow-motion moments. Just erratic bursts of profanity and a suspicious patch of dirt where something once lived.
To the shrub sculptors, mulch masters, and hydrangea heroes of Windham, I truly admire your dedication. I’ll just be over here, maintaining our shrubbery on life support and trying to convince my grass to turn a shade resembling green.
If you ever open that botanical garden with the gift shop, please make sure it sells cold Guinness and maybe chicken wings.
I’ll be your best customer.
Steve
This article was published in the May 2026 issue of Greet Windham magazine
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