Except for a brief trip to the gardening center in Chester, I spent my Sunday digging in the earth. I am slowly gaining ground, literally. Last year the shop was so busy I didn’t get much done so the weeds have muscled out some of my precious perennials and every square inch of bare soil is now inhabited by a foreigner. It doesn’t help that the earth is the most nutrient rich I’ve ever worked with, fertilized yearly with compost and seaweed by the previous owner of the property. It’s richer than Oprah and attracts plant life like iron to a magnet.
I love the feel of the cool earth and would prefer not to wear gloves but my hands would be ruined and probably scare the customers. The dirt settles in the cracks and sucks the moisture out of the skin and there isn’t enough hand cream in the world to replenish it. I wear the kind of glove with a rubber palm to prevent grass leaf cuts as can be knife-like to pull, thence the term blade of grass. The dirt still gets inside the glove, just enough to need a manicure but it’s all part of the experience and nothing a nail file and a bit of soaking can’t fix.
After a couple of hours clearing the dense undergrowth in the garden behind the house, I sat on a rock for a break, daunted by how much was left to beat back. It’s a slow advancement to do a thorough job. After the top of the weed is removed you have to dig deep to get the entire root or it will be back by yesterday. It's like a jungle back there, I’d hauled away three heaping wheelbarrows full of vegetation with at least two more to go and this part of the garden is small, maybe eight feet by twenty feet!
My body was sore, I was sweating like a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs and I’m spitting dirt that always becomes airborne in a tug of war with a particularly stubborn weed. As I shook the dirt from my bra that always manages to get down my top, a thought hit me. Gardening is war. I was in the trenches. This was a War of the Weeds! It certainly has all the elements of combat. Aggressive invaders fighting over territory, landowner fighting back to protect and preserve, hand to hand combat, first with the left and then with the right to pull the weeds. Maybe I was too long in the sun but I started thinking of all the parallels and play on words to use for a war theme.
I love the feel of the cool earth and would prefer not to wear gloves but my hands would be ruined and probably scare the customers. The dirt settles in the cracks and sucks the moisture out of the skin and there isn’t enough hand cream in the world to replenish it. I wear the kind of glove with a rubber palm to prevent grass leaf cuts as can be knife-like to pull, thence the term blade of grass. The dirt still gets inside the glove, just enough to need a manicure but it’s all part of the experience and nothing a nail file and a bit of soaking can’t fix.
After a couple of hours clearing the dense undergrowth in the garden behind the house, I sat on a rock for a break, daunted by how much was left to beat back. It’s a slow advancement to do a thorough job. After the top of the weed is removed you have to dig deep to get the entire root or it will be back by yesterday. It's like a jungle back there, I’d hauled away three heaping wheelbarrows full of vegetation with at least two more to go and this part of the garden is small, maybe eight feet by twenty feet!
My body was sore, I was sweating like a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs and I’m spitting dirt that always becomes airborne in a tug of war with a particularly stubborn weed. As I shook the dirt from my bra that always manages to get down my top, a thought hit me. Gardening is war. I was in the trenches. This was a War of the Weeds! It certainly has all the elements of combat. Aggressive invaders fighting over territory, landowner fighting back to protect and preserve, hand to hand combat, first with the left and then with the right to pull the weeds. Maybe I was too long in the sun but I started thinking of all the parallels and play on words to use for a war theme.
Some weeds put up one hell of a fight. They travel deep so you have to get out the heavy artillery to shift them…..enter the spade, my weapon of choice. Some roots are dreadfully long and deep, seemingly bound for Japan and don’t give up their posts easily.
I also have the scourge of a sticky weed that attacks with a vengeance. It sticks to the plants and has some sort of toxin causing a burning rash when it comes in contact with bare skin. Chemical warfare if you ask me! If you give this weed an inch it takes the whole yard, and if you let it mature, it shoots its seeds around for next year’s crusade. The seeds are sticky and attach to your pant leg, boots and the pups, so they get transported around the yard to infiltrate virgin territory for next year's battle.
I won’t have to fence in the peony patch this year. Their blooms are top heavy and droop to the ground without support. I couldn’t weed that area because of the bird nest so now the grass is dense and tall enough to hold the plants vertical. Grass is my biggest foe. It doesn’t fight fair. It gets right into the middle of the root of the plant and then sends shoots all over the place to come up everywhere. You pretty much have to dig up the entire perennial and pick through the root system and then replant it. And oh the slugs this year, as if sprayed from an automatic gun, leaving holes in precious lily leaves but interestingly doesn’t touch weed foliage.
Weeds can camouflage themselves. Chameleon interlopers sidle up to plants they resemble in an attempt at a covert mission, confusing the real plant from the spy. I can’t make them confess, it’s a fifty chance of getting it right. It's kill now and ask questions later.
To keep the victory you can't turn your back for a second. You have to be on guard, pick off every new shoot that pokes its head out of the ground. You can’t let them settle in; they have to be struck down to keep the numbers from rising up against you. There is no Geneva convention in gardening. Weeds must die, no questions asked. Hunt, seek and destroy is the mission.
I also have the scourge of a sticky weed that attacks with a vengeance. It sticks to the plants and has some sort of toxin causing a burning rash when it comes in contact with bare skin. Chemical warfare if you ask me! If you give this weed an inch it takes the whole yard, and if you let it mature, it shoots its seeds around for next year’s crusade. The seeds are sticky and attach to your pant leg, boots and the pups, so they get transported around the yard to infiltrate virgin territory for next year's battle.
I won’t have to fence in the peony patch this year. Their blooms are top heavy and droop to the ground without support. I couldn’t weed that area because of the bird nest so now the grass is dense and tall enough to hold the plants vertical. Grass is my biggest foe. It doesn’t fight fair. It gets right into the middle of the root of the plant and then sends shoots all over the place to come up everywhere. You pretty much have to dig up the entire perennial and pick through the root system and then replant it. And oh the slugs this year, as if sprayed from an automatic gun, leaving holes in precious lily leaves but interestingly doesn’t touch weed foliage.
Weeds can camouflage themselves. Chameleon interlopers sidle up to plants they resemble in an attempt at a covert mission, confusing the real plant from the spy. I can’t make them confess, it’s a fifty chance of getting it right. It's kill now and ask questions later.
To keep the victory you can't turn your back for a second. You have to be on guard, pick off every new shoot that pokes its head out of the ground. You can’t let them settle in; they have to be struck down to keep the numbers from rising up against you. There is no Geneva convention in gardening. Weeds must die, no questions asked. Hunt, seek and destroy is the mission.
Then there is attack by air. Little black, blood sucking bombs, probably in cahoots with the weeds to drive you into the house to help stop the slaughter. You have to wear a suit of armor and helmets with nets, or be eaten alive. Being attacked from above by kamikaze no-see-ums....yes, war is hell!
Fighting over land and beating back the advance of unwanted invaders, hell bent on overcoming and subduing all the domestic occupants is a full on war, one that I will win. My yard is ruled by dictatorship; I am the Weed Nazi. I have weapons of mass destruction; the spade is mightier than the sword. Weeds may take the Hostas but I take no hosta-ges.
There will be war wounds. Gardening is not for the weak or faint of heart. Scratches and bites, twisted ankles, sunburns, sore backs and aching body parts. And just as you think you’ve won the war, and can sit back for your victory drink to enjoy dominion over the back yard, you have to start the quest all over. More troops come in the night, over land, sea and air. Like man, weeds don’t learn from their mistakes, they keep fighting a futile war.
It’s always a tactical strike. In the spring, Nature sends in the foot soldiers, the dandelion, easily sighted with its large yellow head although never a coward among them. They pop up with abandon all over the lawn to distract you from the other cavalry advancing on the gardens. You focus on a preemptive strike before they turn to seed and send spores parachuting all over the rest of the yard; next year’s troops. Dandelion roots grow deep and pop up faster than a Whack-A-Mole at the Exhibition. There are special sniper tools to pick them off but it’s a full time job and you have to man your post day and night.
After the Dandelion invasion, then come the buttercups with their deceptively sweet looking flowers but pack tenacious root systems that put up a real fight. I don’t know all the names of the different weeds; the unknown soldiers of the garden war, but they come in wave after wave to distract and keep you busy while the grass roots send leaders underground to move in for the kill in your flower beds. Grass is my biggest enemy. As long as it stays on the lawn I tolerate it, but grass knows no boundaries, it creeps over the borders into no weed's land, my garden.
In all wars there’s collateral damage. When the rubber boots accidentally stomp on a tender shoot of your precious perennials or you sit and flatten something that won’t recover this year, or cut off a flower that accidentally got in the way of the pruners. You mourn the loss of each fallen comrade. And the big loss, grab a weed and pull the perennial out with it. Yup, there’s a lot of friendly fire on a mission to beat back the forces, of nature.
Sometimes I wonder why I do this back breaking chore. Why don’t I just plant shrubs or fly the white flag and let the grass take over? It’s simple really. I love the beauty of a well-appointed garden. I love cutting fresh flowers for my vase. And of course, we all have to do our part to keep the gardening centers in business, where else will we find new little gems to plant each year. New plants to dote over and protect.
Gardening sure is back breaking, dirty work, unless of course you are Martha Stewart who seems to be able to weed wearing Battenberg lace gloves that stay white in the face of dirt. My new yellow rubber boots have taken a hit. Scratched and banged up they no longer look pristine. More collateral damage of this war I am in.
At dusk I surrendered for the day and crawled into the bunkhouse with enough dirt under my fingernails to plant potatoes. Now on leave, I knew there would be a long soak for this General in the claw tub before bed. I'm down temporarily but not defeated, I'll be back at my post tomorrow filling the wheelbarrow with more casualties. I'm a veteran, in it for the long haul, until I surrender the need to garden.........
Fighting over land and beating back the advance of unwanted invaders, hell bent on overcoming and subduing all the domestic occupants is a full on war, one that I will win. My yard is ruled by dictatorship; I am the Weed Nazi. I have weapons of mass destruction; the spade is mightier than the sword. Weeds may take the Hostas but I take no hosta-ges.
There will be war wounds. Gardening is not for the weak or faint of heart. Scratches and bites, twisted ankles, sunburns, sore backs and aching body parts. And just as you think you’ve won the war, and can sit back for your victory drink to enjoy dominion over the back yard, you have to start the quest all over. More troops come in the night, over land, sea and air. Like man, weeds don’t learn from their mistakes, they keep fighting a futile war.
It’s always a tactical strike. In the spring, Nature sends in the foot soldiers, the dandelion, easily sighted with its large yellow head although never a coward among them. They pop up with abandon all over the lawn to distract you from the other cavalry advancing on the gardens. You focus on a preemptive strike before they turn to seed and send spores parachuting all over the rest of the yard; next year’s troops. Dandelion roots grow deep and pop up faster than a Whack-A-Mole at the Exhibition. There are special sniper tools to pick them off but it’s a full time job and you have to man your post day and night.
After the Dandelion invasion, then come the buttercups with their deceptively sweet looking flowers but pack tenacious root systems that put up a real fight. I don’t know all the names of the different weeds; the unknown soldiers of the garden war, but they come in wave after wave to distract and keep you busy while the grass roots send leaders underground to move in for the kill in your flower beds. Grass is my biggest enemy. As long as it stays on the lawn I tolerate it, but grass knows no boundaries, it creeps over the borders into no weed's land, my garden.
In all wars there’s collateral damage. When the rubber boots accidentally stomp on a tender shoot of your precious perennials or you sit and flatten something that won’t recover this year, or cut off a flower that accidentally got in the way of the pruners. You mourn the loss of each fallen comrade. And the big loss, grab a weed and pull the perennial out with it. Yup, there’s a lot of friendly fire on a mission to beat back the forces, of nature.
Sometimes I wonder why I do this back breaking chore. Why don’t I just plant shrubs or fly the white flag and let the grass take over? It’s simple really. I love the beauty of a well-appointed garden. I love cutting fresh flowers for my vase. And of course, we all have to do our part to keep the gardening centers in business, where else will we find new little gems to plant each year. New plants to dote over and protect.
Gardening sure is back breaking, dirty work, unless of course you are Martha Stewart who seems to be able to weed wearing Battenberg lace gloves that stay white in the face of dirt. My new yellow rubber boots have taken a hit. Scratched and banged up they no longer look pristine. More collateral damage of this war I am in.
At dusk I surrendered for the day and crawled into the bunkhouse with enough dirt under my fingernails to plant potatoes. Now on leave, I knew there would be a long soak for this General in the claw tub before bed. I'm down temporarily but not defeated, I'll be back at my post tomorrow filling the wheelbarrow with more casualties. I'm a veteran, in it for the long haul, until I surrender the need to garden.........
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