I used to call them “yard nazis”, a term that trivializes the victims of the worst war of the 20th Century by putting bad gardening practices on par with the murder and suffering of millions. It doesn’t equate…!
The process of weed whacking a tomato plant, rhubarb, a small herb garden, and a patch of mint is upsetting. I think “yard vandalism” may be less insensitive a term to describe that “process”, and will call it such from now on. Yard vandalism.
Yard vandalism is what you have when you rent. Though the name of the complex refers to garden apartments, there is some question about who the gardeners are. All my humble and minimal efforts apparently don’t read as “garden”, though I can’t imagine there being any doubt that a tomato plant is a keeper. Herbs give off a strong clue about their utility, too, for those too rude and crude to recognize an herb when they chop it: herbs smell like herbs!
Looking north. The stump by the white drainpipe is a lovely yellow climbing rose. “It’ll grow back,” Attila told me. It did, and it produces copious small yellow blossoms with a light floral scent.
In the meantime, it looks like hell on earth. Roses are tenacious growers, however. Attila is correct.
Looking south. This was mostly weeds and iris, that beautiful one week wonder that looks terrible most of the year, in my humble opinion. I didn’t plant them. The yard kitsch kitty with butterfly, though, suffered a severe weed whacking. I hope it ruined the weed whacker, or, at least, slowed the vandalism down till repairs could be made. Not that I harbor ill feelings toward people just following orders…. (Oops! That wasn’t alluding to “yard nazi”.)
The kitty survived at least 10 years in the garden up on Mississippi Avenue, and nearly 10 years here. I mean, I got my money’s worth out of it.
That said, run it through a weed whacking, and something happens. Something has to give. Something is altered.
The bent tail on kitty is new. Thanks, yard vandals! I believe I make a gift of it to your boss. I’m not wasting any more time or money trying do something in the dead space by the foundation. I have just so much stamina these days, thanks to the vicissitudes of illness, and if the result isn’t recognizable as a garden to you — what’s that trenchant expression I’m trying to call up? — oh, yes, %#$@ it!