I love weeding.
There’s something very satisfying in taking hold of a weed and yanking it. Roots and all. Out of its cozy nest.
Then again, there’s something very frustrating in yanking it and the root breaks off. And stays behind.
And the weed comes back even stronger than before.
I reserve my weeding for Saturdays. The sprinklers come on for our weekly turn early Saturday morning.
Which means I have lovely wet soil to deal with.
This is Florida.
We grow serious weeds.
One must take weeding seriously.
I sit spread-eagled flat on the ground. On one of those garden pads. Pail for weeds on one side. Hori-hori knife nearby.
Every serious gardener should own this nifty little tool.
And the fun begins!
If the weed has sprouted out of thick mulch, it deserts its comfort zone without protest. Even the root tip surrenders with a gentle “thuk” and a sloshy sigh.
But, big but here –
If the weed has sprouted where there is a meager coating of mulch or no mulch, I’d better reach for the Hori-hori knife. Dig in, loosen the soil, THEN get hold of the little darling.
The Captain invariably arrive back from shopping at this time. Brings out a Red Apple Ale. Shares it.
I sit back and give my digitus secundus aka index finger and thumb a break. The same two fingers I use for knitting. And quilting. They get a little “over-used.”
I look at my “done” patch.
I look at my “to do” patch.
I ponder the wisdom of weeds to root themselves in fertile soil.
The Parable of the Sower comes to mind.
But with a twist.
Seeds on dry soil? Birds gonna eat it.
Seeds on a rock? Ain’t gonna happen.
Seeds in amongst dense ground cover? Not a chance.
Seeds in fertile soil? My oh my what a beautiful crop!
So, we’ve sewn our life in fertile toil.
And things are good.
Life is great.
We’re on track.
We’re firmly rooted.
Then “stuff” happens. A small misstep here. A tiny sin there. Everybody does it. It’s not going to hurt anyone. Just this once.
Slowly, ever so slowly layer after layer of “mulch” cover our strong healthy lifestyle.
And next time Satan yanks our chain –
There we go.
I guess the moral of my story is to watch out for that slow insidious ever-increasing layer of mulch.
Cyber hugs and Blessings All.