The gardening
season has now officially begun for me.
When I closed my eyes to sleep the other night I saw weeds.
Some
insomniacs count sheep. I relax by
visualizing vegetation I don’t like (e.g. dandelions) that is growing where I don’t
want it (e.g. my lawn). For the past several weeks, as I cleared my
perennial beds and the first signs of green life began appearing, my sleep has
been somewhat restive – due in part to uncertainty about all those spots where
I didn’t see signs of growth, and concern for the weather conditions that could
destroy those sprouts that were beginning to emerge. But now that the evil invasives are back for
me to do battle with – a one-shot operation with no “will they make it?” type
of worries – I can once again rest peacefully.
It isn’t just
my own weeds that can generate these soporific perceptions in my mind
however. This time it was the plethora
of pervasive plant pests that percolated up from the depths of the Frank WestonRose Garden, and presented themselves for our gardening pleasure earlier in the
day.
“Our” is the
assemblage of plantsmen from the Men’s Garden Club of Wethersfield who had
gathered earlier in the day to “open up” the town’s rose garden. The MGCoW has
been caring for this public recreational area since 1983.
Rocco, Ernie,
John, James, Prez Tony, and I arrived at 8:00 a.m. Club member Richard had previously done some
of the work. Our tactical plan was to
clean up winter debris; spread composted cow manure (which had frozen last
autumn before we were able to “winter-over” with it); evaluate the rose bushes’
health and cold weather survival status; cut away some deadwood; and do a
little incidental weeding. This last
task turned out to be our major occupation for the morning.
The abnormal
cold and snow pattern of the past winter appears to have played havoc with the
floribunda’s wellbeing – we will know more in a few weeks. But the strange weather clearly was a godsend
for the unwanted groundcover vegetation (chickweed, etc.) that vies for space
with the fragrant perennials for which this planting area is intended.
This
unexpected enemy was fine with me since I had passed up my usual Saturday
morning at the health club for what I was hoping would be a comparable, but
purposeful, workout. Part of which
would consist of carrying the 40-pound bags of composted cow-patties, and
strategically dumping that dung around the bases of the plants. And now the war of the weeds would complete
my exercise program.
Although somewhat
taken by surprise, our band of “Rose Warriors” was nonetheless up to the
challenge – using cultivators, shovels, and gloved hands to rip the unwanted
miscreants from their wrongful places in “our” modest, man-made attempt at
Eden.
Unfortunately,
being out of practice, I had not brought my all-time favorite garden tool – the
fork-tongued weed remover. No gardening
job is more rewarding to me than duck-walking along a weed-stricken piece of
land and plunging that tool into the soil to undercut the culprit’s last
earthly connection. So instead I ripped them out the old fashioned, manual way
– with some improvised help from my pruning tool as up-rooter. The bending, kneeling, standing, lifting,
twisting, stretching and tugging was a great complement to the aforementioned
heavy lifting.
I did however
remember to bring my second favorite gardening toy, a Japanese pruning saw –
which Rocco and Ernie discovered the joy of when they grappled with two patches
of orna-monster grass which, uncut in the fall, had turned to stubborn,
eye-high, vertical straw stacks over the winter.
In the end it
was time well spent and much fun – as evidenced by the resulting look of the
garden, the fatigued feeling in our muscles, the collective sense of
satisfaction, and the long-awaited images of unwanted plants that appeared to
me when I settled into bed that evening.
Plant growers
in arid places like New Mexico, who struggle to cultivate anything floral, find
it difficult to believe that I spend even more time and energy removing
unwanted greenery than they do nurturing it – and that I get as much, and
sometimes more, satisfaction out of acts of extermination than of those of
germination. They may even question how
I, an inveterate destroyer of plant life, dare to call myself a gardener.
To which I
reply, “How do you people sleep at night?”
