Here at the Farm, the weeds are having a fabulous year. These tap-rooted foot soldiers must have heard me swear on my tattered Western Garden that I was giving up herbicides in favor of a greener green-thumb lifestyle, and now after a bit of rain and sun. Charge!
Just look at those marauders in their maddening battalions, proudly waving seed-heavy victory flags.
On good days I fantasize about a herd of hungry Merino sheep who magically discern the difference between a weed and an ornamental. [In addition to cultivating weeds, I also fancy a bit of knitting, and knitters, even slow and clumsy ones such as I, we fantasize about fine wool. And while I’m no expert on animal husbandry I’d bet my best pair of No. 7 needles that sheep + weeds = wool + fertilizer. A win-win situation if ever I heard one.]
On bad days the fantasies of this greener-thumb-wannabe-knitter drift to the dark side. Off market herbicides. Plastic tarp. Fence to fence landscape rock.
And even, dare I whisper it, a hand held flame thrower. No mercy. Scorched earth. Followed by a one-third acre installation of hard-scape with which to memorialize their ashen remains.
Please. No one’s more ashamed than I.
So one afternoon, armed only with a rusty trowel and my six year old grand, I decided to face the invaders head on. I had to put on a brave face. I had to set a good example. Semper Fi.
We engaged in battle gamely, the grand and I. The grand fearlessly driving his Tonka bulldozer into the fray, digging erratic defense trenches with all the play-not-work enthusiasm a six year old can muster. Thirty blistered minutes in, I had maybe cleared a 3 by 12 section of battlefield [inches not feet, did I forget to mention the baked clay soil?]. Just as I was ready to throw in the trowel, I spotted several Spanish Lavender seedlings trapped behind enemy lines. Any gardener worth their mulch has taken the oath: leave no volunteer behind. I did selfishly wonder if these upstarts knew the sacrifices we were making to ensure their survival.
Just then the grand shouted, “Buried treasure!”
“Buried treasure,” I said.
“Look,” he replied, unfurling his dirt-crusted fingers like a gardener-to-be.
Sure enough, it had been buried.
And as rocks go, it certainly was a treasure.
I hugged my treasure and counted it as a victory.
We have a bulldozer and we’re not afraid to use it.
♥ ♥ ♥