There is an old story that Greta Garbo once had a nightmare that she was sprinkling grass seed on her head and awoke, screaming, “I vant to be a lawn.”
Lawns are pretty much a creation of the fertilizer industry.
To sell fertilizer.
From today’s local rag:
He then clips and snips his shrubs, edges his sidewalk, whacks those errant blades that grow at the base of his chain-link fence, poisons the weeds and fertilizes and limes.
The result of all this care is a lawn with large areas of dead grass bordered by a few no-longer-evergreen shrubs and one scraggly rose bush that lives only because he ignores it.
The fascinating aspect of this situation is that he continues with his ministrations week after week seemingly oblivious to cause and effect.