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Spring!

So. There’s Your Humble Blogger, gardening. Or more accurately, there I am pulling weeds, because that’s my chosen task in the yard: I pull weeds, I work the mower now and then, and I tell my Best Reader how great everything looks and/or tastes. I grew up in the desert, you know.

Anyway, there I am, pulling weeds, and while of course most of what I am pulling is dandelion, I am also pulling lots of little seedlings from the neighboring trees. The next door house, particularly, sheds thousands of those little propellers, and some of them work their way into our fertile soil, and either I catch them as tiny beanlike sprouts or as six-inch high mini-trees. And I pull them, because I do not want any more trees in the yard, either in the garden boxes where it’s really more a matter of priorities, nor yet in the little yard itself, where space and sunshine are at a premium. And I don’t want to be raking up more of those propellers in thirty years, although I have to admit that’s not really a likelihood anyway.

What I’m getting at, though, is that this tree has managed, through the miracle of Naytchah, to propogate itself. There’s the tree over there, and here’s this seedling over here. And if I didn’t do anything about it, there would be a tree over here, likely enough, and that tree would probably last the rest of my life and more. This isn’t a mayfly I am squashing, this is a massive, decades-long project of forestation and reproduction. This is the Big Dig. And then—yank!—gone. And then—yank!—another one gone. In the heap with the dandelions and the grass cuttings, probably to go into the compost because I can’t be bothered to sort.

I don’t mean that I feel guilty or remorseful about pulling the little fuckers. I am part of the Circle of Life, the great system by which we keep the propellers from taking over the worlds and murdering us in our beds (I’m assuming they will very quickly learn to walk, like the triffids, but that given how far the little fuckers have already traveled, I wouldn’t put it past them), and although I am not unduly proud of my achievements in that regard, I am not ashamed, either. I just think there’s something frightfully piquant about something that has the potential to be bigger, live longer, and generate more descendants than slight-figured nearsighted not-quite-five-foot-eight me being yanked out of the ground and tossed in the heap by my somewhat trembly hand.

Do y’all ever think about stuff like that? Is it just because I didn’t have my headphones in?

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

Comments

Every so often I become remorseful over the death of some harmless insect in my house, merely acting on biological imperatives, and I am tempted to usher them outside instead. Then I remember that they're stink bugs, and I'll find three more tomorrow anyway, quite possibly on my neck. Ugh.


Oh yeah. :)


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