““What?’ I yell, as the semi pumps his engines, making conversation nearly impossible. Such is the life of an urban gardener. We are not unused to the cacophony of traffic, the roar of transient elements, as we dig, and pitchfork, this being our second year in South Burlington, on the Route 2 strip. It’s still a stretch to imagine we belong here, rural gardening folk, in such an inhospitable locale. And yet, each garden delivers rewards and by applying muscle to foreign terrain, one learns and expands. The magnolia blooming can not be faulted. A pale pink on one, and two more, presenting white, in the midst of an otherwise barren floral landscape. Daffodils, intrepid, below, mostly in yellows or off-white, dependably self confident. In the late afternoon half-light, we proceed, attempting to eradicate plants, that have over-stepped their bounds. A garden untended for a few years, can appear a total mess. Which is what we dive into, and decide to make our own. Sitting now with sandwiches, and coffee, at picnic tables provided by the French Fries operation under which we work, time stands still. What is most concerning, is an endemic invasive species, that some hapless gardener planted, years ago. It has invaded all areas. We, are the cosmic cleanup crew, almost an EMT situation if you will, to put to rights, what has been over-run. How often I have found myself in this situation! As if by proxy, people call me. They seem to know, I’ll not be timid, in terms of cleaning house. It’s perhaps the only area of my life, in which I am termed “ruthless”, although I’m not privy to what is said about me, overall. I’d rather not know. But when I see an unruly takeover, a place where inferior interlopers have risen to a place of power, I am not one to live, and let live. I go after things, covertly, or otherwise. Call me a crusader, a Knight’s Templar wanna-be, or just a malcontent, but I am not reticent to use my spade, to call a spade, a spade, and dig further into the roots, than is comfortable. How to gain friends, and influence people, is the opposite of my motto. I seek to trust and then be unpleasantly surprised by the way unsavory characters invade my space, and undermine me. Plants are no different. They charm, then multiply, then create false narratives to ensure their survival, on into perpetuity. Maybe I’m just a plant cop. I wouldn’t object to that moniker. Give me your goutweed, your unwashed masses, your false icons. I’ll be there. See you there, and don’t be surprised if the whole sordid operation reveals itself, to be a manipulation of smart people, who saw just beyond what you could see.”
