War is Gardening by Other Means: My Battle with the Weeds

I have never had much of a green thumb, but Colorado has done its best to remedy that.  Unfortunately, its tool of choice has been weeds.  It also decided to get a head start, with the weeds in our yard well-fortified and prepared to resist a ground assault weeks before we moved in. 

Having already dealt with the wasp menace, I now had the maneuver space to take on this next foe.  I went out, reached down to grab a weed grown to hip height, and promptly let go as its thorns plunged deep into my flesh like a rabid rat going after a slice of three-day old pizza. 

“A general should never take too much on his own shoulders,” I said to myself.  “What I need to do here is delegate.”

“That’s a great way to rationalize laziness,” I replied.

“How much blood do you want to lose pulling these weeds?” I retorted. 

Internal rhetorical battle won, I lit the beacons and called for aid.  Then I waited.  And waited.  And waited some more. 

Little did I know, yard work is a hot commodity here in the local area.  I had multiple companies tell me they were too busy for new clients, and others apparently too busy to even pick up the phone.  Meanwhile, I watched the weeds complete their hostile takeover of my exterior yard.  They named their new territory Weedlandia and established a rudimentary form of governance that would be impressive if not for the aggressive posture they established on the borders of my lawn.

Then, as all hope seemed lost, a light.  One company I had reached out to days earlier finally heard my call for aid and chose to answer.  Plans were made for a walkthrough to provide an estimate.  I mocked the weeds and told them their days were numbered.  They waved back in the wind, unconcerned.  I should have seen that for the sign it was.

The day of the estimate arrived, and my ally appeared.  I knew at once that this man, no, this hero, would restore balance in my life.  He got right to business, assessing the battlefield like Napoleon atop his steed.  I could feel the weeds quiver in fear at his passing, and I reveled in it.

The landscape legionary finished his walkthrough, then turned to face me.  “We can do it for seventeen sixty,” he said.

My first thought, I’m shamed to admit, was joy.  A mere $17.60?  Has righteous judgement ever been delivered on such an efficient budget before?  I think not!

Then the rest of my brain caught up.  “$1,760?” I clarified.

“Yep,” he said. 

Ladies and gentlemen, I do not have a large yard.  It is by no means cramped, but it is also no Hanging Gardens of Babylon.  Twenty good steps will take you from one end to the other, and most of that is grass the weeds have yet to conquer.

Let me frame it another way.  If I went to the bank and asked for 1,760 dollar bills, I would have more than enough to sew together into an awning I could use to starve every weed in my yard of sunlight, killing them just as well as my so-called hero might have done had I delivered those dollars to him instead.

I thanked the man for his time, said we would not be needing his services, and sent him on his way.  The weeds—already familiar with landscaping economics on the Front Range—rustled with laughter.

The next day, I dug through a tool box and found a pair of gloves.  I then spent an hour pulling out the vast majority of weeds in my yard, save for a few I elected to keep alive as test subjects for an upcoming round of chemical warfare. 

As I stood upon my porch looking out over the devastation of my enemies, I felt mixed emotions.  On one hand, there was the satisfactions of seeing my foe brought low, their few ragged remnants twitching halfheartedly in the wind as they stared in shock at the results of what their pride had brought them. 

On the other hand, tearing out the waist high weeds really accentuated how half of my lawn is dead or dying.  But that, dear reader, is a war I have yet to fight.