Spirea 2
Continued from last week.
This was supposed to be about the spirea.
I was beginning to understand why my wife wanted all spirea eradicated from, if not the face of the Earth, at the very least the face of our humble plot of land. I assumed it was down to a previous life, or perhaps spirea in her past. As a general rule, we didn't discuss spirea interactions that occurred before we met; that sort of thing is best left unexplored, I find.
It began, in me, as a warm, slightly raw flame, burning from somewhere around my chest, and then again down at the pads of my fingers. It was this that spurred me on to the next spirea without wasting any time for water or a trip to Home Depot to buy an automated persistent shrub ripper upper, which surely someone's made by now and sells for poor souls who inherit gardens with larger ambitions than their own.
I attacked it with abandon, I attacked it with verve. I alternated between the pitchfork and the shovel. I didn't seem to be making any progress, an observation made by my mother-in-law. She was now sitting on the front stoop, observing the leaves in the gutters, and her son-in-law, vainly flailing at bushes.
Somewhere in there, two tines of the pitchfork bent in opposite directions. I was pondering this, sitting on the ground, beside yet another spirea bush of the approximately eighty seven still remaining firmly planted in our yard.
Spinoza may have been inspired by spirea bushes for his idea that "The entire universe emanates inexorably from the immutable core of infinite substance."[ref: http://www.philosophypages.com/hy/4h.htm#nature, which in turn refs his: "PROP. XXIX. Nothing in the universe is contingent, but all things are conditioned to exist and operate in a particular manner by the necessity of the divine nature."]
So this wasn't a chance encounter, I suppose I was preordained to spend a weekend attacking spirea, attempting to clear them from their previous necessary existence with deep roots in our very yard.
That was, as I've said, in early June.
In early October, of the same year, we now have seven less spirea, two of which are sitting in the driveway, partially contained by black trash bags. And only, at last count, fifteen to go.
To be continued again?
disclaimer:
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So imagine we're all waving westwards and saying, "Hello from Clare!" You can also imagine all the Clare girls in bikinis, if you like.
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