“I’ve never written a quote I feel would be suitable for my gravestone. Wouldn’t it be ironic if it were this one? ‘Oh, and could you pull a few weeds while you’re here?’ ” Ryan Lilly, Write Like No One is Reading
The coming weekend is probably the one.
It happens around this time each year. The whole family bursts into the garden like the Galactic Empire has been at its dirty work just outside our doors all winter long.
We mow. We tie up climbing roses that are sagging. We weed. We dump the potted soil of summers past into wheel barrows and freshen it up with crumbly black gold. We wear ridiculous hats and debate the merits of lavender vs. cone flowers vs. covering the entire property with artificial turf.
It’s not easy living on a corner, with a crazy cottage garden that’s in full view of everyone and their dog. Literally.
Later, a small meadow of flowers will lean and tumble over our picket fence, distracting passersby from any weeds that may (by which I mean “will”) still be lurking. In early spring, however, there’s a rush of crocuses then not much except dirt, brown leaves, patchy lawn and way too many clumps of onion grass.
This state of affairs can last for several weeks, depending on the weather. Tidiness is the only thing that can visually separate us from, well, the kind of place where one might find syringes.
So, neighbors human and canine, we are on it. Weeds, be warned.