This week, I went to war.
I met the enemy in his own stronghold and did not flinch. Although my foe was firmly rooted and did not give an inch without taking a measure of flesh in return, I emerged battered, exhausted and bloody, but victorious.
Mostly.
If anybody reading this has rosebushes growing in your yard, you know exactly what I’m talking about.
I think I have discussed the bushes that populate my front yard before. They are great big balls of thorns with a bad attitude. They are vicious weeds pretending to be flowers, and I have never successfully pruned those hateful brambles without requiring some degree of medical care in the aftermath.
The bastards I am referring to are not your typical rose bushes. These are called “wild roses,” which is a polite euphemism for “tangle of barbed wire designed for maximum mayhem.” The fact that this thing is even considered a “rose” is due to its periodic attempts to produce a tiny red flower that – if you stand far enough away and cross your eyes – mimics something that might loosely be considered rose-like. Don’t be fooled. These little spots of red are merely the lure this barbed beast uses to draw you in before the attack. It’s like an Angler Fish, sitting in wait for something stupid enough to take a closer look.
As I said, I believe I have mentioned them before, but I have broached the topic for a second time because this year I decided, once and for all, to do away with the malevolent monstrosities. I was fed up with the constant, annual battle to hack my way into their midst and cut them back into something resembling a manageable size. I was tired of throwing away the shreds of whatever remained of my clothing that day and then mopping up the blood on my bathroom floor like I was trying to hide a violent crime scene.
And, no longer was I willing to stand in my driveway during the rest of the year and stare at those waving tendrils of evil as they taunted me:
“It’s almost that time again. You and me, garden-boy. We’re going to dance.”
Well, this year, I vowed it would be our last dance. When it was all over, one of us would own the yard and the other would be dead in the driveway.
When the time came, I sent an e-mail to my daughters to tell them that I loved them, kissed my wife goodbye, and walked out of the house without looking back. With holstered pruning shears and a shovel over my shoulder like a soldier marching in formation, I went to work.
There were ten of them, and only one of me, but I did not hesitate. I knew what was being asked of me and I accepted the risks.
Like most survivors of battle, I do not want to discuss too many details of what occurred. It’s too difficult to think about without emotionally reliving the trauma. Suffice to say, it was utter chaos. There was screaming, prayers for strength, wails of despair, blood and tears.
There was also lemonade. That was nice. But mostly, it was blood and tears.
I recall one moment of perfect clarity in the maelstrom. I was lying on my back on the driveway, panting and feeling my heart racing in my chest. Five of my enemies had fallen against my relentless assault, but five more remained, guarding the front lines and awaiting my next charge.
Through an unspoken, mutual agreement, a brief truce had been called. It was like Christmas day in 1914, when the U.S. and German soldiers decided that although we are still at war and will soon resume killing one another, for this fleeting moment in time we will stand down and let each other coexist.
I could see a few white clouds overhead, drifting through an otherwise clear, cold, blue sky. Somewhere in the distance, birds were singing in the trees as they called to one another in greeting.
It was … peaceful.
Then I heard it. That raspy, low voice. “We gonna do this thing, or what?”
I looked up and saw the nearest rose bush waving its long, thorny appendages in my direction. Two tiny flowers shifted to gaze at me like glaring red eyes from hell.
“You gonna lie there on the ground all day like a putz, or are you ready for round two?”
Okay, I may have been hallucinating a little bit. I am really not in great physical shape and I might have been experiencing the early stages of heat stroke.
I pushed myself onto my hands and knees, and shakily climbed to my feet. It was time to show the world what I was truly made of. So, picking up the shovel one more time, I faced the remaining bushes.
We stared at each other for a long, hard second. I thought about the stories of great heroes of the past, and how they threw themselves against impossible odds. They pushed forward despite the likelihood they would not survive their adventures.
Then, I gave up.
Yup. I dropped the shovel and went back in the house. It’s a bunch of plants. They’ll still be there tomorrow.
As I write this, there are five wild rose bushes still lining the driveway. I hate them, but I know my limitations. Maybe, I’ll tackle them again next week. Maybe not. Either way, I’m going to let them sit and worry a little while about when I might come at them again. They’re not going anywhere, so I have the element of surprise on my side. I have time to scheme and plan my next assault.
Or, maybe I should just hire a gardener.
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