Having finished writing a novel, I crave ice cream, human conversation and sunlight. A Moose Tracks sundae proves perfect therapy. My husband, still awaiting a coherent word, takes my grunts as portents of better things to come. Then — ah, the sunlight. Fresh summer air. Green, living things.
Unfortunately, most are weeds. Thousands of Klingon sticker weeds have conquered our garden.
Ha! They do not realize this pale, flabby author will wage a down-and-dirty battle to rescue her oppressed plants. To arms, garden warrior!
I don grubby jeans, “No Fear” T-shirt, and holey tennis shoes.
Hubby: “No pajamas? You’re wearing real clothes?”
For him, it was a long novel.
We bathe in sunscreen, then assemble deadly weapons: hoe, rake and digger.
Weed phasers would be nice additions. But Hubby strikes vicious blows with his hoe. I attack a beleaguered tomato plant’s foes.
Sleek-looking cyclists zoom past. Hubby looks after them longingly, but continues his valiant efforts. Cute runners wearing designer exercise attire and perfect makeup stare as if they hope what I have isn’t contagious.
Whew! After a morning-long battle, we shower and wolf sandwiches. Hubby leaves for work. I decide to savor a rare view of our tidy garden.
My jaw drops.
An overloaded mulberry tree branch has dropped across it.
Hardly a whisper of a breeze cooled us this morning. Yet this beam-like limb collapsed, bending tomato plants’ cages. Branches, leaves and mushy berries smother veggie rows.
The tree providing our sole shade was in cahoots with the Klingon sticker weeds!
The moment Hubby’s truck departed, it unleashed its barrage. Briefly, I wonder if my dearly beloved is in league with them, too. But he did hoe all morning. …
The gnarly branch barely budges.
“You think you’ve won, Klingon-sticker-weed-lover?”
A swoosh of anger can fuel a woman to do great things, even energize an everyday person to ninja feats. Armed with hedge trimmer, two saws, and Hubby’s old Boy Scout hatchet, I reduce my enemy to sawdust.
Well, not exactly. But by evening, I’ve consigned most of the purply mess to trash cans. And myself.
This ninja still can’t move the big branch. Later, Hubby saws it into sections and hauls them away.
Miraculously, the garden suffered little actual damage. We wish we could we say the same.
But now I savor the rare sight of tidy vegetable rows.
Ah, the colorful sunset. The fragrant summer evening. Green, living things that are legal.
A tired writer’s perfect therapy.
Guaranteed to send her back to her laptop forever!
What has been your biggest gardening battle?