Gardening: Why Hubby Can't Weed

GARDENING: WHY HUBBY CAN’T WEED
By Donna Lowich

The chapter heading here is a bit of a misnomer. I hesitate to even put the “gardening” anywhere in the title."Gardening" tends to conjure
up visions of someone lovingly and tenderly attending to a myriad of flower beds, crowded with a multitude of blossoms and colors. Well, that doesn't happen in OUR yard. Nothing makes Walter happier than to see a tree come
down in a storm. No matter what else is in need of attention or repair, the tree gets chopped up first. Which is fine if we are indeed fortunate enough for a storm to down a tree in the farthest corners of the back yard. That, as Charles Darwin has taught us, is Nature's way of selecting the strongest of the species.

Ah, so what happens in lieu of Mother Nature? What if there are no storms? Walter happens, that's what. Walter does the selection and chooses which tree lives, which tree dies. Then he changes identities once again and becomes Paul Bunyan. He slings the chain saw over his shoulder and heads for the back forty.

But I think he takes this identification thing a bit too far when he tries to get the cat to pal around with him, much as Babe the Big Blue Ox did with Paul B.

One of the happiest days in recent memory for Walter was when we had a very bad thunderstorm, complete with lightning bolts and high winds. A tree was downed at the edge of what I call the receding hairline of woods at the back of our yard. Even though the tree was behind the toolshed, and was not in the way of anythiing, Walter happily put a moratorium on ALL other activities until that tree was cut up. He celebrated the event by buying a brand new chain saw.

We have lived in our house, situated on a formerly heavily-wooded acre, for almost 16 years. In that time, we have lost 4 forsythia bushes and countless
trees, shrubs and various flora and fauna to the dreaded Walking Death.

Needless to say, not once has a single flower, tree or so much as a seed been planted in their stead. At this rate, with a few bags of sand scattered over the yard, the remake of "The Sheik of Araby" could be filmed. I am offering my
yard...are you listening, any of you Hollywood producers out there???

Springtime, for most people, is heralded by the blossoming of forsythia and the budding of the trees. For us, who no longer have a forsythia bush to our name,(or our yard), and a lot fewer trees than when we moved in, the first sign of Spring is Walter taking out the chain saw. It is truly a reliable harbinger of the change of seasons here. While most people listen for the humming and chirping of birds as a sure sign of warmer weather, around here, we listen for the humming and then the deafening roar of the highly-prized chain saw. I hesitate calling it "Spring" because that brings forth associations with rebirth and renewal after a long, cold winter. No sense in trying to make even the scantiest of associations with that here, where once the weather warms, the plants quake in response to the ever-looming question: "Which one of us will be the next to fall victim of the local Chain Saw Massacre?"

In fact, when the birds start chirping and the squirrels and other woodland creatures start scurrying and scampering through our yard, and other signs of springtime are all about us, it is their way of communicating their fears of the upcoming season to each other.

"Chirp, chirp, chirp," one sparrow says to another," Let's change nests now. The tree we use now is near the front line of battle. It may not make it through 'til June."

"Caw! Caw! Caw!" warns the crow. “Caw! Caw! Caw!" "Warning! Warning! Today is the day! The chain saw is coming out today!"

The bluejays also sent out a message. “Raa! Raa! Raa! Raa! Raa! Raa!” Meeting today! Meeting today! Come to the Old Oak in the center of the woods today at 0900 hours! We are ALL at risk!”

A familiar flapping of wings overhead signals the arrival of Mr. Owl, the keeper-of-the knowledge for the forest, the gossip columnist responsible for “Whooo-s Whooooo” for the Weekly Woodsy News hovered above, checking on the accuracy of the rumors already running rampant throughout the woods. Checking his information, he agrees to post a notice in his popular, widely-read column to make sure that everyone attends the meeting. Everyone watches out for everyone else here. It’s a jungle out there in the yard, this yard.

The mother squirrel runs and leaps, her strong legs leaping high in the air, yet landing softly on the ground, bounding towards their home in another yard. She turns to watch her children, to make sure that they are following her lead.

They are all staying close by, imitating their mother's jumps. All, but the youngest, who was bringing up the rear. "Sammy!" the Mother Squirrel chided. “In this yard, you have to jump to stay alive! We don't know what kinds of chemicals and weed killers this guy has put around here! Weren't you paying attention when we went over all this at home? The idea is the to touch the ground as little as possible --and get through quickly."

Even the plants seem to come alive with their fear. The Rhododendron Family huddle closely together, and include their closest Neighbor, the Widow Azalea, whose husband had fallen victim to weed killer during the previous summer's blitz.

"Try not to worry, " Father Rhododendron reassured his troubled family. “I am here to protect you, and I will not go down without a fight! I will risk life and limb for my family! Look what I have! The Hedgehogs saw this in farthest reaches of the garage, and thought that we could use this as a powerful antidote to whatever he uses this year."

A collective sigh of relief was heard throughout the garden, as Father Rhododendron produced a small arsenal of weapons--a spray bottle of plant food, fertilizer sticks and a few homemade Nitrogen-for-the-soil bombs.

Right now, there is a small tree which has the audacity to try to grow in our yard--very close to the house!! It is an offspring from a tree that is fortunate enough to be growing right on the property line, so its survival is guaranteed. Anyway, when I first noticed the sapling, I told Walter about, hoping against hope that he could just pluck it from the ground, roots and all, and simply replant it toward the back of the yard. That, of course didn't happen. My guess is that Walter is waiting for the tree to mature and Spring to come, so that he can once again welcome the season with the roar of the chain saw.

You know how some people name their estates, usually a name describing the view or some particularly lovely aspect of their properties. Well, my next project is to name our place. I'm thinking of "Spruce Villa", not because we have any spruce trees (because we don't--and very few of any other kind, anymore, either!!), but because that's what we need to DO!! From inside to outside, we need to spruce UP! Other aspects of the yard could also be used: Quaking Palms Ridge, Dwarfed Elm Ranch, or maybe Lone Tree Estate.

Another problem that arises from the caretaking of the yard is the imminent arrival of guests. These two seemingly disparate events always seem to collide. It doesn't really matter if they are coming over for the day or just for dinner, as soon as I ask for help in the house, Walter immediately sees the need to rake up that final pile of leaves in the furthest corner of the yard, left over from the previous fall.

In fact, it's hard to tell where the leaves are or rather, were, the previous fall. In fact, it's hard to tell where the leaves are or rather, were, since most have already bio-degraded into soil. It's really amazing to see how the words "Can someone help me set the table?" can trigger the memory and set the menfolk into action in the yard.

So when Walter sings "I Never Promised You a Rose Garden", he not only has the songwriter's thoughts in mind, he adds his own, quite literal meaning to it. And, he has kept his
word.