The healthy crop of dandelions sprinkled across my yard, lovely little flowers to me though ugly weeds to my wife, reminds me that the tedious lawn-mowing season is upon us once again.

But if I had even a shred of environmental consciousness, I would immediately pull the spark plug from that innocent-looking weapon of grass reduction sitting in my garage, proudly declare myself to be a true steward of the earth, and then maybe go fishing. After all, I have the scientific information I’d need to support my new anti-mowing stance. For years there have been stories in the press pointing out that America’s curious obsession with the ideal lawn is harmful to the planet. The Environmental Protection Agency has warned for several summers now about the threat of lawn-mower pollution and urged us to consider the ecological consequences of our never-ending pursuit to make tall grass short.

Consider these troubling facts the next time you fire up the trusty old Toro. The EPA has estimated that running a gasoline-powered lawn mower for an hour creates as much pollution as driving a new car for 111/2 hours. Another study said lawns account for some 7 million acres of American land, more than any field crop, and that we spend nearly $5 billion a year in our misguided attempt to nurture them to perfection. Then there was the report a while back from the University of Colorado claiming that newly cut grass releases volatile compounds into the atmosphere, adding to the toxic gases that already taint the air we breathe. Not only do our lawnmowers drink up millions of gallons of gasoline each year; they kill 75 of us annually and maim 230,000 more.

So where was all of this critical anti-mowing information when I really needed it in my teen-age years? Even back then I suspected that mowing grass was not only drudgery but somehow anathema to the natural order of things, by which I mean my precious leisure time. I wanted my lawn-proud father to believe it, too, and to recognize the folly of forcing me to cut a broad expanse of grass that would be just as tall by the next weekend. I harbored the same resentment against having to blow leaves from one part of the property to another in the fall. What was the purpose of rearranging God’s handiwork like that when I could have been hanging out with my friends?

I didn’t have the scientific data back then to make my point, but I do now. As the owner of a lush lawn of my own, I’ve been tempted to exploit the information to my advantage by renouncing my eco-criminal past and becoming the crabgrass environmentalist I was born to be. This could be a tough sell among my family and my lawn-loving neighbors. They could mistake my highly principled environmental stand for sheer laziness, especially if I’m sipping a beer on the porch and listening to a Red Sox game while the dandelions explode their seeds onto the breeze. I can just hear them, clucking their tongues as they pass my house: “Look at him, sitting there while his property becomes a wild jungle. Why, I remember a time when he cared about curb appeal.”

I could take the barbs, though, confident in my humble quest to make the world a little better place to live, one lawn at a time. In my newfound free time, I could start a crabgrass support group, lobby to make the dandelion the state flower, and connect more often with nature’s untamed side, which is a dandy stretch of trout-filled river about an hour from my house.

My burgeoning environmental conscience demands no less a sacrifice.