Post Cuttings – Spring Edition.
(transplanted and re-potted)
I search my lawn for insurgent weeds.
The situation is grave. The dandelions continue to advance, despite the hundreds I’ve already rooted out. I raise the alert level to red and prepare for a full-scale attack.
With plastic bag in hand, I move out and quickly spot a dandelion at ten o’clock. It has already turned white and is about to blow. It is a windy day. I have to act fast. I am battling a cunning enemy with a powerful coalition that includes Mother Nature and Poland.
My heart pumps furiously as I pounce and rip the evil-flower from the ground. Yet, there is no time for celebration. Dandelions are everywhere: at twelve o’clock, two o’clock, three o’clock, and even eight-fifteen.
Time is short. Other days, time is tall when she wears three-inch heels. Today, time wears flats. Maybe I still have a chance if I can spot the dandelion general, who is cleverly disguised like one of his soldiers, and can only be identified by the caterpillar moustache he wears.
I clutch my bag and pray for the wind to subside. It gets worse. Praying has never really worked for me. So, I yell, “God help me,” instead, and race through the yard, swiping explosive dandelion heads from their stems before the wind scatters the tiny white cluster bombs across the lawn.
I stop by the center garden to take a breath. It is twelve-thirty and my work has only started. The dogs sit on the front stoop watching me. The white one appears sympathetic; the brown one is apoplectic. She likes eating dandelions. To her, they are a delicacy, a treat she can only have once a year, like Christmas. If only she could eat faster than the dandelions turn white. However, she doesn’t care for the seeds. They tickle her nose then float away onto the neighbor’s lawn.
I gauge my next line of attack. Time for the big guns. I grab the weed-whacker that leans against the house. When I turn it on, the white dog runs. The brown dog stays and continues glaring at me. She’ll never forgive me for this. “Sorry,” I say, and then turn to engage the enemy.
Some weed combatants are visible, standing tall, decoys I imagine, while others hide low in the grass. They are the most dangerous. If I can’t pinpoint their location today, by tomorrow they’ll most certainly be airborne.
I continue inflicting as much damage as possible until rain drenches my back. The dandelions suffer heavy casualties, but it’s still not enough. With Mother Nature and Poland on their side, the dandelions are a formidable foe.
I am forced to retreat to the kitchen to restock my supplies. I load up on garbage bags and bottled water then head out to the front to a blast of thunderclouds and a rapid-fire rain attack.
The dandelions have already brought in reinforcements. I’m outnumbered, outmaneuvered, and out-of-breath. The outlook looks dismal. I am but a coalition of one in my war against the evil-flowers.
I grab a bottle of Poland Spring to re-hydrate. After gulping it down, I stare at the label on the bottle and smile. With renewed energy, I march toward the dandelions and their coalition of three, hold up the empty bottle, and scream, “If I can’t have Poland, at least I can have Poland Spring.”
Do you have any gardening war stories?