Jacob Shaker, of West Lebanon, N.H., mows near crabgrass growing in his family's yard on July 21, 2016. Shaker said the crabgrass is too tough for his mower and his mother and brother are allergic to its pollen. Following work on the city's water and sewer lines, the grassy weed grew during a dry spell when the seed was not watered. (Valley News - Geoff Hansen) Copyright Valley News. May not be reprinted or used online without permission. Send requests to permission@vnews.com.
Jacob Shaker, of West Lebanon, N.H., mows near crabgrass growing in his family's yard on July 21, 2016. Shaker said the crabgrass is too tough for his mower and his mother and brother are allergic to its pollen. Following work on the city's water and sewer lines, the grassy weed grew during a dry spell when the seed was not watered. (Valley News - Geoff Hansen) Copyright Valley News. May not be reprinted or used online without permission. Send requests to permission@vnews.com. Credit: Valley News — Geoff Hansen

If crabgrass was a cash crop, we’d all be rolling in dough in my little corner of West Lebanon. Instead, we are covered in digitaria, which Wikipedia, the go-to-source for researchers like me, suggests is either “large crabgrass,” D. sanguinalis, or “smooth crabgrass,” D. ischaemum.

I’m betting on large crabgrass, because it has just about covered a bright red fire hydrant on my street, and a bumper crop on a nearby corner is up to my belly button. For the record, I’m 6 foot 1, and my belly button has long been above regulation lawn height.

Overall, my neighborhood looks like the Teamsters declared a lawn mower strike. Or, that we are in a dystopian future where zombies, plague and famine have visited, and, even worse, lawn care standards have gone all to hell.

Here is how West Lebanon became the crabgrass capital of the Upper Valley, if not the world: Last summer, large construction equipment repeatedly dug up several streets as crews separated the sewer and stormwater systems. They also savaged our lawns along the right of way; in my yard, the wreckage extended about 15 feet. Winter came on before they could reseed our lawns, but the friendly workers told us they’d be back in spring to spruce things up.

They did return, smoothing the rubble and spreading out a new layer of topsoil. They sprayed gunk with seed and fertilizer. Several of us — that is, my neighbors and I — asked if we should water it. Not necessary, we were told. They’d send a water truck if needed.

As days grew into weeks, some of us grew worried about the reseeded sections. I went on vacation for a couple of weeks in May and expected to return to the sight of zillions of little green shoots, or maybe something that urgently needed cutting, but my plot was stubble-free as a 12-year-old’s chin. Then, bits of crabgrass took advantage of the open terrain. Soon, bigger crabgrass chunks muscled in. Before we knew it, the crabgrass was a foot high and thick, too. The fertilizer must have been powerful stuff.

With little word from the city or the contractor, we neighbors wondered what to do. One weeded out the crabgrass, to the point where her lawn looked nearly bare. Another said he darn well (a little stronger than that, actually) wasn’t going to weed somebody else’s mistake. On the Fourth of July, I started pulling up crabgrass, which came up with roots bigger than baseballs. I debated throwing them onto the street in an act of insurrection, but it was hot and no one was around, so I thought better of it.

“Write that everyone was getting crabby,” my wife, Dede, told me as I mulled the crabgrass debacle. “I’m the columnist in this house,” I told her, but I’m using her line, even though she didn’t help with weeding.

Some neighbors called City Hall. A landscape company came by and mowed once, which left spiky plants that looked a little like pineapple fields in Hawaii. We got an email from the city that said contractors would apply more seed, and thatch the ground. My neighbors, in curbside confabs, expressed skepticism. Tear it up and start all over, we agreed. Many grew so miffed they refused to mow the mess, which is about to go to seed, threatening our future tranquility.

Even as we chatted, the crabgrass was growing; you couldn’t see it actually growing, but you could feel it. Crabgrass is insidious that way. It plays tricks on you. (Or maybe I’ve been thinking about it too much.)

I wrote to my city councilor. I wrote to the acting city manager. I wrote to the city engineer. I wrote to the Department of Public Works. I wrote to the Maine contractor who did the work last summer. I received several polite responses, but the crabgrass grows on. In some parts of the neighborhood, the crabgrass has formed a shabby streetside hedge. In another spot, it looks like a failed corn field. My own patch at one point reminded me of the crazed haircuts characters give themselves in horror movies before they go on a killing spree.

Meanwhile, exercising the free speech rights of all Americans, I vigorously crab about the crabgrass to my neighbors and my wife, who all crab back. For now, I am holding the high ground and not taking any regrettable actions, but there is crabgrass up to my knees and I am not at all comfortable here.

Update: On Friday afternoon, the city sent out an email that said the contractor, at the city’s behest, is going to start pulling out the weeds and will have our lawns restored to normalcy by September.

It also raised the possibility that canary reed grass is the real culprit. In the spirit of a famous New Yorker cartoon about a kid rejecting spinach, I say it’s crabgrass and I say the hell with it.

Dan Mackie can be reached at dmackie@vnews.com.

Dan Mackie's Over Easy column appears biweekly in the Valley News. He can be reached at dan.mackie@yahoo.com