For weeks I have been watching them grow. Thick. Verdant. Lush. Luxuriant. A carpet of health and vitality.
On rainy days, the green was particularly virulent, soaking in the raindrops, drinking in the vitality. When the sun shone, they seemed to bask, undulating in a light breeze, flexing to their very leaf tips.
Today, I decided, they had to go.
Like most refugees from the city, one of the first things I wanted to do when I got to Fibrotown was to establish my very own vegetable garden. I would be Peter Cundall, only younger and more… female. My backyard would become a Garden of Eden, without the snakes. We would eat our own tomatoes and lettuce and parsley and basil. In winter, we’d reap the bounty of cauliflowers and leeks and celery.
Things haven’t turned out exactly as I’d planned.
The scales fell from my eyes early.
Then there was the Great Rhubarb Incident. Followed by the Spinach Glut of 2010.
Which brings us today. And the enormously successful crop of Weeds that I managed to grow in my vegie patch over summer. The only thing, in fact, that grew at all after that one success with the tomatoes.
I got in there today and pulled them all out. Weed after weed after weed. Dirty patches on my jeans. Mud caked on my boots. RSI in my shoulders. As I pulled and dug and pulled some more, I found myself considering planting some nice shrubs in the space. Low maintenance. Good screening.
But as I pulled out the weeds, revealing the patch in all its glory, I noticed just how good my soil has become. No wonder those weeds flourished. All that compost so carefully dug through has provided the structure for a veritable worm farm in the beds. It is dark, and rich, and just bursting with goodness.
It’d be kind of a waste to put a Murraya in there. Not when it could feed some leeks to make me some soup. Or some parsley to save me buying it every five minutes.
Hmmm. Back to the drawing board.