Oh sweet joy of joys, warm weather is now upon us and with it comes the pleasure of being in the gardens where plants we have lovingly nurtured are emerging from their winter’s rest. Now doesn’t that just sound wonderful? It does, but with the emergence of perennials comes the returning weeds, the bane of any gardener.
When my husband and I first moved to Mattapoisett over 30 years ago, one of the recreational activities we eagerly pursued was gardening.
With his brawn and my imagination, we explored garden shops for just the right flowering specimens. Those first few years we expanded the size and scope of the flower beds hell bent on sculpting the landscape to one that bloomed in every stage of the growing season. Hundreds if not thousands of dollars in plants, pots, fencing, mulch, soils and more plants, equaled by the hours it took to get everything transplanted, were spent to make our yard grand.
We were young, strong and willing to invest our physical and material resources in this manner.
What is that saying, “Hindsight is always 20/20?” Today, when I look at the flower beds, I can scarcely see the flowers for the weeds! I say to my husband with tears ready to erupt from my eyes, “What the hell were we thinking? Didn’t we realize we could not do this backbreaking work forever? Why did we make so many flower beds?” He estimated that today we have given over approximately 160 linear feet to flowers.
We were young, strong, and not yet suffering the ravishes of aging. Only a wounded old body understands that salad days end, eventually. Landscaped vistas go to seed – weed seeds at that.
The last few years have been rather harsh for this aging gardener. Gone are the days when I could kneel in flower beds for hours at a time, pulling, trimming and planting to my heart’s content, unaided by nothing more than my trusty trowel.
Now bending at the waist for more than a few minutes produces hours of back pain and rubbery legs unable and probably unwilling to support me. But funny things happen when one is outside the confines of a house that at times has felt prison-like due to pandemic worries and physical ailments.
The first thing one will notice is the presence of birds. Those returning thumb-sized hummers, yellow finch, orioles, blue jays, catbirds and robins, singing with intent and rapture. Chipmunks will pop out of hiding to fill their pouches with leftover seeds. Wild turkeys will parade through the beds, seeking insects. The foxes and coyotes, as evening falls or dawn arrives, will trot through on their way to the wooded lots remaining along upper North Street. They restoreth my soul.
But in spite of that semi-poetic attempt on my part to put a shine on our outdoor spaces, weeds still cause me to sputter, “What’s the use?!”
In preparation for writing this piece, I did a little internet research (emphasis on little) into just how so many invasive plant species have rooted themselves so firmly in the new world – they came from the old world centuries ago. Many, many herbs, bushes and plants of all varieties either were brought over in ships carrying colonists or were eventually ordered by those same immigrating people to be used as medicines or seasonings.
One such pest – I mean guest – is the Sorrel. Now before I go too far, let me confess I’ve never tasted Sorrel myself. Descriptions that follow are based on other people’s witnessing.
As I look out the window into the back garden, I’ve been watching Sorrel slowly but steadily take over. I did not know its name until this morning when, as previously noted, I looked up types of invasive plants in New England and was able to identify the nuisance plant. Sorrel is but one of many imported problem plants.
It spreads via rhizomes like bamboo or phragmite just to give you some sense of what I’m dealing with. It is of the same plant genius as rhubarb and buckwheat (polygonaceae) – I kid you not.
If you just look up Sorrel on the internet (where else would one look something nowadays) you will come up with recipes for drinks, salads or hot dishes – fancy stuff. You’ll also find that when consumed by livestock in quantity, it can cause death. But if you just go out in your garden and gather up some Sorrel from the abundance spread throughout your unattended garden, you’ll be surprised how awful it tastes: sour and bitter at the same time.
If I were a colonist being given a tea of Sorrel, I might believe in its medicinal powers based on the gagging that followed. But I’m a modern person simply trying to rid my gardens of what my eyes see as weeds. They must go.
I actually have no hope of winning the weeds war. They were on the plant first, and their sheer numbers and variety overwhelm my ability to even come in at a distant second. That’s not to say I’m throwing in the trowel. It just means I’m weighing how best to avenge my aches and pains.
The pleasure in pulling up a big clump of Sorrel is rather satisfying if short-lived, like popping bubble wrap. And then there is the question, do I take the anti-inflammatories before or after the weeding? Either way, on the pain scale of ten being the worst pain ever and one being no pain at all, I’m hoping to achieve a five.
One final note on our forefathers and mothers from whom we’ve inherited what our evolved minds believe to be weeds, not medicine, never forget they are the same people who gave us bittersweet, wild garlic and several varieties of Sumac to name a few of the more than 700 invasive species we deal with today.
Happy gardening folks.
This Mattapoisett Life
By Marilou Newell