While browsing the garden supply aisle of a store the other day, it occurred to me that there are for sale at least as many items designed to kill as there are to help grow.

The goal of a perfect lawn in particular inflicts mayhem — not just on weeds, grubs, moles and other “pests,” but to any other hapless plants and critters, including such beneficial insects as honeybees, that had the ill fortune to wind up in or near grass cultivated by people determined to create putting-green expanses at any expense.

Mind you, I’m not against ordinary lawns that have a bare patch or two and a few dandelions, but whenever I see an iridescently verdant yard, precisely trimmed and bereft of crabgrass, I envision all the poisons and nitrogenous fertilizers sprayed or sprinkled onto the soil, later wreaking havoc when they leach into groundwater. Such lawns essentially become toxic waste sites and should be trod upon only while wearing a hazmat suit.

So-called “lawnatics,” of course, are not the only culprits. Backyard gardeners who apply an abundant array of chemical herbicides, fungicides and insecticides when growing everything from arugula to zucchini are just as irresponsible.

But the lawn remains a personal bête noire, stemming from my memories of a hated boyhood chore: mowing the grass.

Actually, now that I think about it, I detested any task that kept me from riding my bike, reading comic books, playing ball or watching cartoons, but being ordered to cut the lawn was like being sent to a suburban Gulag.

Our family’s first lawnmower, an old-fashioned model that relied on human power, had blades duller than Popsicle sticks and required repeated, violent thrusts to hack away at any growth higher than three inches. It took hours to cut the tiny patch of grass around our house, though some of that time may have been taken up by frequent breaks for lemonade and chocolate chip cookies.

I briefly rejoiced when my father finally broke down and bought a power mower, mistakenly believing it would propel itself around the yard with minimal expenditure of human energy.

Wrong. If anything, the beast was heavier and more cumbersome than the push mower. Not only that, but it was noisier and more treacherous.

This was the era before cars had seatbelts and kids wore bicycle helmets, so you can imagine the lack of safety features or warning labels on a power mower. Basically, you filled the gas tank, yanked the starting cord and started mowing, usually while wearing shorts and flip-flops. Nobody ever used safety goggles or noise protection.

Every so often, you’d strike a rock that shot out the side like the round of an M-16 rifle. The deafening roar, meanwhile, was equivalent to standing alongside a Boeing 707 preparing for takeoff.

Consequently, now, as an adult (at least in age) with my own house, I’ve taken pains to prevent even a single blade of grass from taking root near our property.

I’ve planted beds of myrtle and pachysandra groundcover that remain green year-round and require zero maintenance once they’re established. As a bonus, myrtle plants, also called periwinkle or creeping vinca, develop attractive, purple blossoms this time of year.

This spring, as part of my ongoing anti-lawn initiative, I transplanted another 200 tree seedlings as replacements for the trees I’ve cut for firewood, and also put in an additional 50 rhododendron bushes. I mulch these plants with tons of leaves — some of which I rake, but most collected in bags and barrels from neighbors. They email me whenever they have a batch ready to pick up, or even better, simply drop them off near our driveway.

It’s a great system. They don’t have to drive to the town transfer station to dump leaves, and I don’t have to drive to a garden center to buy mulch.

Now, full disclosure: I may not use a lawnmower, but I do own a gas-powered string trimmer that I use a couple times a year on trails around our house to keep them clear of vines, poison ivy, brambles and weeds. I’ve found that if you rake dead leaves off the paths as soon as they drop in autumn and then run a string trimmer over them once or twice the following spring and summer, the walkways develop a dense carpet of moss, impervious to impeding growth.

These trails now are not only esthetically pleasing but much more hiker-friendly.

I suppose if you added up all the hours I’ve consumed raking, mulching, planting and trimming, it probably would exceed the amount of time spent mowing a lawn, and then some.

The difference, of course, is that I’ve convinced myself into thinking that all my labor has been fun — much better than reading a comic book.