The Hancock-Henderson Quill, Inc.



Beyond The Picket Fence

-by Sherryanne De La Boise

I am tired of gardening and it's only early June. Our property has been invaded by a couple of non-native invasive plants that are making my time in the yard rather unpleasant. It's so difficult to relax when the weeds are gathering steam right below my chaise lounger.

My compost pile is a six foot diameter circle of welded wire in a damp corner of my yard, filled with branches, vines, weeds and kitchen scraps. Got tired of having to unbend the top edge of the wire where critters had perched before diving in to dine. So, I cut two six inch holes cut out of the bottom for the mice and other critters to be able to invade the pile. No need to pay for that primordial scream therapy, just walk quietly up to my compost pile and watch what jumps out at you. Best to be noisy when taking over additions.

The Creeping Charlie is just a beautiful plant, with its deep purple flowers and forest green leaves. It grows thick and lush. It grows well in both damp and dry locations, making it fabulous replacement for a mowed lawn, except it has no sense of boundaries. Once established, Creeping Charlie carpets, then chokes every other bit of vegetation in the garden. The deer won't eat it. The bees ignore it. It has no natural enemies. My fingernails may be permanently darkened from having to filter the top several inches of dirt to rid of all of the web of roots of the Creeping Charlie. At least mint releases a lovely fragrance and makes a delightful snapping sound, as I pull the long tentacles of roots away from the soil.

But the Creeping Charlie is so determined to live that I have to spread it across the asphalt driveway and let the hot sun bleach it dry, before adding it to my compost pile.

I learned the driveway trick after the Bitter Nightshade decided to root, instead of compost. All of those kitchen scraps fed it well. With the compost bins' sides of wire, the Bitter Nightshade grew in all directions. As I weeded it from the sides of the compost pile, I grumbled about having to pull the same weeds twice.

That happened to me once before: I was feeling lazy and left the pulled weeds in a little pile, alongside the vegetable patch. Some of them used the security of the other weeds and had the audacity to root!

Now, I make certain to have a disposal bucket or a wheel barrel beside me, whenever I weed!

Buckthorn is the other plant that has invaded. We cut it down this past March, before it could leaf. Because Buckthorn can propagate from a bit of green branch, we cannot just chip it. We have to burn it. This is not like that lovely fire pit in Stronghurst. We do not have a trash dump. Nor, are we allowed to do open burns in our yards. I can only burn the 150' long x 8' wide x 8' tall pile of Buckthorn in my grill and my firepit. I am pleased that we got so much removed before the berries started forming, as they smell just awful when burnt.

I smell just awful after a day of burning. It gets into my clothes and my hair. Remember when we could tell if a girl had been out to the bars, because her hairspray captured the cigarette smoke?

Remember when popular girls smoked? It was years later that I figured out that boys thought girls who were naughty enough to smoke would be naughty enough to do other things, hence their popularity. But, I digress….

Was in Stronghurst, last week. Mother's garden had become invaded by Mulberry trees. Even though the weather was beastly hot, Mother's 87 year old sister and I sawed down seven good sized trees and dozens of smaller ones. I know all the survivalists want a Mulberry tree for its very useful fruit, but we do not. The purplish berries not only ripen, but in late Summer, they turn positively alcoholic. The birds eat them and like fraternity boys after too much party, pass out on the lawn. It's really disconcerting to see a yard of drunken birds.

And, even more disconcerting when they poop purple. When it comes to drunken birds (and reindeers), take my advice: Don't stand underneath when they fly by.

We filled the paper trash bags five times over, as Virginia Ross had taught us – eons ago – to haul the bags to the dump, empty them into the fire, and bring the bags home for refilling. There was no way that I was going to chop those larger trees into sensible, bag sized pieces. It was just too hot.

So, we slid two of the bags over the front seats of my convertible to protect the leather. Put a couple of indoor/outdoor carpet squares onto the seats and a tarp over the back seat and onto the trunk (The top of the car was down). Then, we wedged the trees into the backseat. They stood up about 20 feet into the air. Thank heavens we did not have to drive under the railroad bridge! It looked like the convertible had been parked too close to the compost bin and trees had relocated themselves to the back seat. Did this for three trips to the dump. Was laughing at the absurdity so hard, that I dragged Marlene Knutstrom from her comfortable chair to witness the only Mulberry trees to ride in style to the Stronghurst dump. I thought she was going to split, she was laughing so hard.

The last load of bags was taken to the dump by Spencer Jack. "Do you want your bags back?" he asked as he drove off.

One other thing: We got rid of those pesky mattresses that have been residing on the front porch. Seems we only had to call Waste Management in Macomb and pay a $25 fee to have excess garbage picked up. Wish I would have realized it months ago.

So, if you see Mother, tell her how nice her porch looks with the mattresses gone and don't bother to mention the bit of grass that has planted itself onto the top of the center column. I'm waiting to see if a Mulberry plants itself there, too.