Gobbled Up by Green{9}

driveway to a sea of green

My gravel drive lapped by a sea of green

Keeping up with the Weedashians…

If I kept a diary, no doubt I would scribe the same words of panic each spring, “Everything is growing so fast; I can’t keep up with it.” Ah but then, when my brain kicks in, I remember the verdant explosion of spring is merely a sprint lasting a month or two. Eventually, the brambles will bloom and set berries, the tall grass will mellow into a flaxen hue, and the weeds will settle down (though still mocking me with their prominent seed-heads and creative ways of dispersement.)


Wall of brambles: I fight this onslaught weekly. When the neighbor’s horses moved, the blackberries took their place.

When I do my little morning walkabout, the voice inside my head joins me like an impatient foreman tied to a time clock, “Oh and don’t forget to prune back the holly on the drive, oh, and did you see all the algae in the fountain? And don’t let that Scotch broom on the fence line get out of hand?” Sometimes my out-loud voice tells my inside voice to “Just shut up!” Although, this approach is not recommended; passersby are quick to judge such curious outbursts. (“Well, Tom does live alone, after all.”)

untrimmed privet hedge.jpg

Man the pruners! The secret passageway through my privet hedge is being swallowed up.

I do eventually calm down, and while still employing my out-loud voice say, “I am but one man on four acres.” Somehow this makes me feel better. Boz and Gracie do not judge and only ask for a few mowed areas to shade or sun themselves, as the case my be.

looking out my front door

Front door weedfest: What isn’t invasive?


Bright colors draw the eye away from the weeds underfoot.

bigleaf maple bulldog statues

Taming the wild beast: the kiwi vines now have a place to twine.

Two months from now in mid-July, we begin our dry season when pretty much all rampant growth stops. The grass turns brown like a sisal rug, the orchard begs for water, and tilled fields are dry as a sandbox. So I best shut my pie-hole, and enjoy this festival of green while it lasts or at least until the blackberry vines eat me.


One garden bed down, 32 to go.