… but, according to the old witticism, you can’t make her think. (Wit supposedly sprang from the lips of a wiseguy high school kid asked to use the word horticulture in a sentence.)
Humor aside! I am no horticulturalist. I can’t bear to chop innocent weeds, especially this far along in a plentifully rainy season, when they’re glorying in life, green and lusty, enjoying the embrace of the solsticial sun, each plant all full of individuality. Also, I’m lazy as an old shoe slumbering in a corner. Also (this is not a contradiction, really), I’m busy.
The result is that them weeds have gotten the better of me, with little trouble. They sense weakness. I am pushed to action mainly by sudden realizations that they’re sending high-frequency messages to a Triffid management team in polar orbit.
Our late father, as I’ve mentioned before, went through an Oriental gardening stage back in the 80s, and planted a patch of bamboo – a majestic giant species – near an ell of the house. I did not realize, until lawn care devolved on me after he died, that one of his springtime tasks was to chop back the big shoots this bamboo sends up through the adjacent soil. This is easy when they’re in the lawn – big, obvious spears, crisp but tender, easy to cut at soil level, and probably good to eat – but the ones that this year emerged in a waist-high thicket of prostrate juniper were big by the time they became visible, and hard to get at. But those messages were being beamed, without doubt. They were damn near audible. So this AM, I grabbed choppers and waded in. It wasn’t easy, but it was either that or humbly welcome our botanical overlords.