It’s sickle vs. knotweed, down by the bay
Battling an invasive visitor, revelling in a determined old friend
I have a hammer and I have a sickle and I’m using both of them.
With the hammer I smash peppercorns, and with the sickle I slash knotweed.
The sickle is a new tool in the bag. The first trial run was on the weekend. Three of us were cleaning up a little garden on a path down to the bay. After we were done, I snuck back to the path and tried the sickle on newly emerging knotweed. I didn’t want to brandish the blade in front of them in case I cut my hand off.
The sickle was perfect at beheading the knotweed, but it was just a test. The sickle is used by most people to cut down tall grass.
The terribly invasive knotweed — the Latin name is Fallopia japonica — is a newcomer to this path to the bay. Left alone, it will swallow up everything in its way. The bamboolike plant grows a mile a minute and is considered one of the worst invasive weeds in the world. Control is extremely difficult, it could involve continuous mowing, digging, tarping, excavation, chemicals, and even grazing by goats. The best description of this plant and its control is at ontarioinvasiveplants.ca
The knotweed spread from another property to a spot it found to its liking — sunny and not bone dry. Plants grow where they want to grow.
I found this out a long time ago. When I first started gardening, the world was crazy for rhododendrons. They look sensational in the U.K., but in Ontario gardens they often struggle. Rhodos like shelter from the wind, a moderate winter, and soil with a more acidic profile than commonly found here. But gardeners like a challenge, so many of us planted them in the 1990s.
I planted a type called a Yak hybrid, developed from the species Yakushimanum. Notable for the fuzzy, leathery, underside of the leaf, the yaks also have a compact growth habit. It’s looked like death warmed for more than 30 years. This year, for some reason, it has a bunch of blooms on it. Though it’s only grown about a foot in all that time, and the leaves are an anemic, yellowy green due to soil deficiencies, it fights to flower every year. It’s a profile in courage.
I’m glad Victoria Day is behind us, it was a flop. The rain and the cold and the pandemic zapped all the fun out of the holiday.
Looking back at photos from previous years, I saw the sunnier side of the traditional (but fake) start of the gardening season. Fruit trees and wisteria in bloom, lilacs perfuming the air, cars stuffed with flowers waiting to be planted, it’s usually a joyous celebration of horticulture. This year spring is advancing like it has misgivings. Sort of the way we humans feel about life with fewer restrictions.
At least we no longer feel like persons of interest as we walk through our neighbourhoods. I enjoy what other people are doing with their yards, sharing their bleeding hearts and patches of rock cress and bachelor buttons with us.
Next up on my garden to-do list is making a batch of pesto out of dandelion greens. I’ve never tried it, but why wouldn’t it be good? Dandelions are packed with nutrients, and the bitterness of the leaves is not so intense in the spring. You have to consider where they are picked, a spot preferably free of chemicals and dog pee.
Not that long ago I made pesto out of radish greens, it had a great, peppery bite to it. So, onward to dandelion greens.
I don’t think I will need either the hammer or the sickle for this job.