There is
a little tri-corner piece of property, probably less than a quarter acre,
nestled among my house and three others. I walk by it every morning
and watch it fill up with weeds. The owner hasn't lived in this house for
maybe 15 years. Once or twice a year he sends a yard man to clean up the little
park. But the weed cycle soon takes over again.
I have
been particularly offended by the nasty little round black sticker weeds that
peppered my clothes. They were the devil to brush off. So I decided to weed
them myself when the flowers were still in bloom, before the beastly
little stickers formed. It only took two
years to get rid of them. I found that a wonderful thing. Almost magical. Why
had I put up with the stickers for ten years? Not my property, I guess was
the reason. I'm not supposed to take care of it.
Which
reminds me of a big fight my children had many years ago over a small flower
garden I had made for them in our front yard. Each child wanted "my own
garden." I don't remember if I convinced them or not but I do recall
telling them that "this garden belongs to anyone who works in it."
Perhaps I only convinced myself.
Anyway,
back to my neighbor's park. After the stickers, the next arrival on the weed
scene were thistles. Beautiful purple at first, their prickly leaves hurt.
They ultimately produced a burst of seed fluff that sowed little thistle seeds
all over my yard. It took me four years to get rid of the thistles in my own
yard. So I finally made war on the thistles.in the little park so they wouldn't
infect my property That took me another four years. Although, to be truthful, the
last years only produced one or two stalwart stragglers that had evaded my
murderous hand. Or glove, as you couldn't touch the spiny leaves with your bare
hand.
.
But I
never even considered tackling the wild mustard that grew in thick and healthy
after the winter rains started. Oh, I made a stab at pulling out the biggest
plants nearest my own unmustarded part of the yard, when the ground was damp
and it was easy. But it was discouraging—there were so many. And the hill on
the side near the owner was too steep to stand on. Mustard, mustard everywhere.
It couldn't be helped. I didn't have the time. After all, I had wild mustard in
my own field that I still struggled with, pushing them back a few yards each
year.
But all
of a sudden, for some unknown reason, last month my weeder's eyes gleamed
ominously at the helpless wild mustard seedlings covering the dark earth like a
green
5 o'clock
stubble. Yes, it was daunting. But, heck, it wasn't like my four acres, it was just
a little park. Maybe I could just hoe the now fragile green nasties for ten or
fifteen minutes every morning. Heck, I could always quit, couldn't I?
But I
didn't quit. After three weeks there was only a small patch of green left. Hooray,
I thought, I could finish it today!! I called my next-door neighbor whom I
thought might be the only one at all interested in celebrating with
me my humble victory.
"Do
you have five minutes to spare," I asked. I want to show you my progress
on the little park. It's hard to believe but I think I've almost done away with
all the wild mustard. I want you to bear witness to the last green
patch."
Alas!
All she said was "could I make it another day?” Her hair was up in curlers and she was busy
washing windows. She's the older generation like me. We're the generation that
still washes our own windows. We do it slow, a few at a time. Such menial
"woman's work" hasn't been yet been gentrified out of our blood.
"Are
you going to plant some wild flowers," she suggested. I was surprised at
that. I had some wild flower seeds but they were expensive and such a few came
in the little $4 packet. Although I did have some left over from a large
project after the 2007 fire.
"I
hadn't thought of that," I answered. "I don't think they'll grow
without being watered but I happen to have some so I'll throw a few down and
see how they do."
But I
couldn't wait for “another day” as rain was predicted in two days and I needed
at least one day to look for stragglers and throw down some wild flower seeds.
So alone and unheralded I raised my hoe in salute, threw down some wildflower
seeds and congratulated myself. It wasn't like I'd won the Nobel prize. But
still, it felt pretty good as I leaned on the hoe and surveyed “my park.”
