Op-Ed: Big Feelings in Little New Canaan
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Let me be perfectly transparent: I love a lawn. I love my lawn. During my Manhattan-commuting years, pulling into the driveway and seeing that velvety green expanse was a balm, an antidote to the day’s air-conditioned banality. Lawns signify more than just grass; they’re a Norman Rockwell-coded page in the visual language of the American Dream. Dads mowing in shirtsleeves, a dog named Fido, cartwheels, catch, daisychains, a Rocket Pop.