Spring is in full swing, and summer is waiting in the wings. We are enjoying long days, warm nights and gentle breezes.
I love the flowers, the trees, the lush lawns and green bushes. What I am not in love with are the weeds that are mass-producing and waging a full-scale assault in what would otherwise be our well-manicured landscaping.
I grew up alongside my mother in her flower beds. We would work tirelessly cultivating, weeding and making things pretty. We never studied weeds or their tendencies. We avoided technical terms and kept things simple with the unassuming plan of, “If it looks like it doesn’t belong, it probably doesn’t.”
She raised me to have a passion for yard work. Once I was married with a family of my own, I longed to be outside and would happily mow the lawn while our four sons cleaned the house. I trimmed the bushes, pruned back the trees and edged like nobody’s business.
A normal woman would leave these sorts of duties to her husband, but when one is married to a man who does not believe in unnecessary tasks, it isn’t so easy. Quite frankly, he would rather fill the beds in with concrete and paint it green — a look that does not exactly scream nature at its best.
But since we opened our antique shop nearly two years ago, I have to prioritize and, since paying the bills and doing laundry are more critical than pruning, the yard work has gotten away from me a bit.
On a recent stroll through the flower beds I noticed dandelions running amok, thistle wreaking havoc and I’ll be dogged if a creeping Charlie wasn’t thriving dangerously close to the lilacs.
Luckily enough for me, we still have our Little Charlie around for one more year and our son Lawrence home for summer break.
Enlisting their help was easy enough, and for a little “walking around money” they agreed to get the place shipshape.
Yet, turning the flower beds over to them was not easy. I could not have them pruning the weeds and pulling the hydrangeas. Heaven forbid they destroy the peonies and deadhead the sandburs. Quite frankly, letting them take over was like handing off a badly behaved, yet much loved child.
With a lecture titled, “Your Weeds and You,” I walked them through the yard and educated them with a botanical presentation.
Although they are quite agreeable for the most part, our sons love to give me a hard time, and working over my dear and precious flower beds provided them with the perfect opportunity to watch their mother squirm.
“This is sort of pretty,” they said as they pointed to a purple-flowered invasive intruder.
“So you just want us to pull this out of the ground by its hair and send it to an early grave simply because it’s growing in the wrong spot?”
They tried to instill guilt, used drama, and all but created a late night TV drama titled, “Just because it has thorns means it has to die?”
“This little guy seems happy,” they exclaimed as they protested the execution of a cluster of crabgrass that any gardener would despise.
“Maybe it doesn’t like you either,” they cried as they pointed to a milkweed.
It was enough to make a woman wonder if it would have been more time-efficient to simply do the weeding and pruning herself.
“I thought we liked grass,” Charlie said as he pointed to the shoot that was coming out of a clump of desirable flowers.
“Didn’t you hear her say she doesn’t like them in the middle of her daylilies?” Lawrence replied.
“You’re a daylilies,” said Charlie before he successfully pulled the whole plot right out of the ground.
But I did it. I walked away and let them take charge. Although I have yet to give the grounds a thorough inspection, the pile of weeds looks to be substantial with nary a peony in its midst.
I hope I can re-enlist them in a week or two when the creeping Charlie once again rears its invasive self in the midst of our hostas. If not, I might just have to resort to getting that beloved spouse of mine to fill in the beds with green concrete.
Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book “Are We There Yet?” You can reach her by sending an email to [email protected].