The loyalty of weeds should be rewarded
SOON after the first showers of rain fell to break the long drought my garden bloomed into a sea of greenery. The carefully planted and tended flowers and herbs had long since shrivelled and died, leaves crumbled to dust and roots as dead as fossils. But the weeds came up in verdant lushness.
I have a weed garden to fascinate the most enthusiastic botanist. My immediate thought was to start digging and pulling. After all we are often told that weeds rob the soil of moisture and nutrients, making it difficult for plants to thrive. But hey, weeds are plants too, and if they thrive in my little patch of mountainside why not encourage them?
None of my expensive nursery-bought flowers or herbs seem to have appreciated the loving care I lavished on them over the dry months.
I carried out buckets of dishwater, I saved the rinsing water from the spin dryer, I collected the leftover face-washing water to give to those plants and what did they do?
They turned their backs on me like DA councillors at a De Lille speech and shrivelled. Call that gratitude?
The weeds, however, have stood by me loyally, waiting patiently and uncomplaining for the rain to come, and have now turned my little patch of desert into a soft green meadow.
I wouldn’t dream of uprooting them or spraying nasty weed killer on them. That’s no way to reward loyalty. In fact I am promoting them to executive status in my garden.
I may plant a few fancy, pampered flowers and an occasional herb here and there, but I will leave the weeds to flourish as an example to them.
I am told all good gardeners talk to their plants and I shall certainly do the same. I’ll stand among the pansies and petunias and wag an accusing finger and say: “Look, you spoiled brats. You think you’re so great with your delicate little buds and petals, but look around you at those weeds. They never had the advantages you had. They had to scratch a living from the dust while you were fed costly compost and phosphates. They didn’t give up and leave when times were tough. They stuck it out and survived.”
Some may scorn them and call them weeds, but you should regard them with awe and admiration.
They are now the inheritors of the garden. Deservedly so.
There’s probably a parable in there somewhere.
Last Laugh
Jim was working in his front garden, wearing an old, dirty pair of overalls and a battered straw hat, raking, trimming and weeding, when an expensive car drew up and an elegantly dressed lady leaned out of the window.
“Young man,” she said in a private-school accent, “you seem to be doing an excellent job there. I could use a gardener like you. How much are you paid per day?”
“Madam,” he said, “I don’t get paid anything, actually, but the lady of the house lets me sleep with her.”