As we surround more houses with grass, we deprive ourselves of natural signposts In the discussion of cities, there is much rhetoric about wayfinding and placemaking: the idea that a diversity of buildings from different eras, built for different purposes, and the way they interface with the street gives a city its sense of place. You know you are in New York City (and, if you are visiting, you know in which direction Penn Station lies) based on the orienteering beacon that is the Empire State Building.

The grid systems and tall buildings of cities may be our default references when we think of wayfinding, but wayfinding and placemaking are actually inherent in the natural landscape.
What makes a place distinct goes beyond its built environment into its unbuilt environment. On the train home, I know I am exiting the mid-Atlantic and entering the South when the hardwoods fade into pine and the thorny smilax vine begins to creep along the peripheral trees. I know I am home in the sandhills of North Carolina because of, well, the sandy hills. To keep a lawn alive in the North Carolina sandhills where I grew up requires quite a bit of money and energy, because to do so is to fight against the landscape and its nutrient-poor, sandy soil. Lawns require constant fertilization, care, and an automated sprinkler. My parents attempted to plant some centipede grass in our front yard, but at best, the grass was patchy. At worst, it was dead. Sooner or later, they...