Lynn Scurfield/The Globe and Mail
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I folded. Dropped the ball. Waved the white flag.
I sprayed. Which would be bad enough if I was a cat, but I'm not. I'm a middle-aged mom just struggling to keep up with the Joneses (or at least a co-worker who likes to brag in the staffroom that her lunch originates from within a 100-kilometre radius of our city, and wasn't as ruthlessly killed as what I'm eating).
Making ethical lifestyle choices in the 2010s is what long hair was in the 1960s – a chance to stick it to The Man: the SUV-driving, non-fair-trade-coffee-drinking Man. My co-worker had the decade's mojo going on. With my processed-ham sandwich in a plastic baggie, I didn't. An ecological makeover was in order: I needed a nouvelle idea to save the planet and boost my stodgy image. How difficult could it be?
At first glance, my idea seemed brilliant. It appeared to require less work rather than more, and I only had to pull it off for four months a year. Perfect. As I raked my lawn at the end of March, I was giddy with anticipation. In my sterile suburban neighbourhood, I would become a crusader for the protection of weeds.
My report card thus far in this era of green cool ranged from fair to outright poor. Recycler? Yes! Unless my blue boxes are full. Organic? Sometimes, if it still looks plastic and shiny. Free range? Eggs. And one $80 turkey that prevented us from eating much else last Thanksgiving.
I did a quick mental inventory of obstacles to my ecological project. Neighbour A would be a hard sell. Picture John Wayne with a leaf blower taking on fallen leaves or snow at 5 a.m. every day of the year. Equally dangerous was Neighbour B, a former military officer who, I was certain, carried out covert raids on marauding dandelions and crabgrass. How else could he maintain a lawn worthy of a golf tournament when all I ever saw him do was sweep?
The two adversaries duly noted, I pressed on.
The knee-buckling started gradually. First, the rate at which my dandelions were blooming was inversely proportional to the number of hellos I was getting from my neighbours. No worries, I told myself. I don't need the accolades that immaculately manicured foliage brings. Or the barbecues or car pooling. I'd still get invited to those shopping parties where you had to buy candles.
A few Saturday mornings into my rebirth, Neighbour A came sauntering over to "help."
"Got some nasty stuff in the shed the wife likes that you can't get at Home Depot," he said with a nod to my declining grass and a wink to me. Did I imagine it, or was he swinging his blower back and forth?
The need to modify my project took on urgency. Perhaps compromise was needed. If the weeds were visible from the street, I would gently and ethically remove them. But just a few.
I purchased what I was sure was my ace in the hole – a Fiskars Stand Up Weed Remover. This non-toxic weed-pulling pogo stick was excellent, I soon discovered, for getting rid of 1 per cent of your dandelions, 50 per cent of your lawn and 100 per cent of your patience.
To the (cynical?) refrain of "How goes the war?" I stepped and yanked while Neighbour B plucked a wayward weed (an escapee from my yard) from his emerald oasis, threw his golf clubs in his trunk and drove away with a smirk.
Forced bedrest from poor yanking technique allowed me time to consider less painful ways of evicting the nasty little lawn squatters, as I had now come to see them. Battle-weary, I limped to the front yard, spray bottle in hand. Vinegar, borax and dish soap would knock the devils out of their spindly, spreading socks. I took aim and fired. And fired and fired. Neighbour A drove by in his gas-guzzling SUV, but seemed to think better of asking about the battle.
Still drunk from the aroma of A535 rub, I had a vision. Rabbits. That might do it. With renewed zeal, I purchased an adorable bunny named Eugene. Plunking him down near the largest dandelion (and the competition for that honour was stiff), I watched him wrinkle up his nose and … do nothing. Apparently, rabbits take their salads without vinegar. These dandelions were locally grown, Eugene! At that point, I took smug satisfaction from the increased presence of cats in our backyard.
The final blow came the morning after Eugene's departure to become a local classroom's pet. I raised my shutters in hopes of seeing an acre of grisly weed carnage. Instead, fluffy dandelion paratroopers sailed past my window and landed pronto on the scant patches of green between the dirt holes left by the Fiskar and the brown, acidic burns of the vinegar attack.
Head bowed, I conceded victory to Team Weed.
I wasn't home the day Studer Spraying Services pulled up. Neighbour B said that it was swift and painless, and that his grandchildren could play outside in a week. Neighbourhood salutations returned to normal, though I am still buying candles.
At least I recycled the Fiskar.
Patricia Whiting lives in Medicine Hat.