Nobody’s park

How nobody’s park became mine

There is a small property on three corners, probably less than a quarter of an acre, located between my house and three others. I pass by there every morning and see how it fills with weeds. The owner has not lived in his house for about 15 years. Once or twice a year he sends a gardener to clean the little park. But the marijuana cycle soon takes over again.

I have been particularly offended by the nasty little round black sticky weeds that dotted my clothes. They were the devil to ignore. So I decided to weed myself when the flowers were still in bloom, before the hideous stickers were formed. It only took two years to get rid of them. It seemed wonderful to me. Almost magical. Why had the stickers held out for ten years? It is not my property, I suppose that was the reason. I’m not supposed to deal with that.

Which reminds me of a big fight my kids had many years ago over a little flower garden I did for them in the front yard. Every child wanted “my own garden”. I don’t remember if I convinced them or not, but I do remember telling them that “this garden belongs to anyone who works in it.” Maybe I just convinced myself.

Anyway, back to my neighbor’s park. After the stickers, the next arrival on the marijuana scene was thistles. Beautiful purple color at first, its prickly leaves hurt. They finally produced a burst of seeds that planted little thistle seeds all over my garden. It took me four years to get rid of thistles in my own garden. So I finally made war on the thistles in the little park to keep them from infecting my property. That took me another four years. Although, to be honest, the last few years only produced one or two stalwart laggards who had eluded my murderous hand. Or glove, since you couldn’t touch the thorny leaves with your bare hand.

But I never considered tackling the wild mustard that grew thick and healthy after the winter rains started. Oh, I tried to uproot the bigger plants closest to my unnetted part of the garden, when the soil was damp and easy. But it was discouraging, there were so many. And the hill on the side near the owner’s house was too steep to stand on. Mustard, mustard everywhere. It couldn’t be helped. I did not have time. After all, I had wild mustard in my own field that I still struggled with, pushing them back a few meters each year.

But suddenly, for some unknown reason, last month my weeder’s eyes gleamed ominously at the helpless wild mustard seedlings that littered the dark earth like a five o’clock green stubble. Yes, it was overwhelming. But heck, it wasn’t like my four acres, it was just a little triangular park. Maybe I could just dig the now brittle nasty greens for ten or fifteen minutes every morning. Hell, I could always quit, right?

But I didn’t quit. After three weeks, only a small green spot remained. Hooray, I thought, I could finish it today! I called my next door neighbor, who I thought might be the only one interested in celebrating my humble victory with me.

“Do you have five minutes to spare?” I want to show you my progress in the little park. It’s hard to believe, but I think I almost wiped out all the wild mustard. I want you to witness the last green spot. “

Poor me! All he said was “could you do it another day?” Her hair was in curlers and she was busy washing windows. She is the older generation like me. We are the generation that still washes our own windows. We do it slowly, a few at a time. This servile “woman’s work” has not yet been gentrified of our blood.

“Are you going to plant some wildflowers?” He suggested. It made me a little bristle with that. Maybe I was too sensitive, but if she wasn’t interested enough to come and watch, how was she telling me how to do it? Or, on the other hand, maybe that was his way of showing his interest. I had some wildflower seeds, but they were expensive and some of them came in a small $ 4 package. Although I did have some leftover from a large project on my property after the 2007 wildfire took away all of my trees.

“I hadn’t thought of that,” I replied. “I don’t think they’re going to grow without being watered, but I happen to have some, so I’m going to drop some and see how they do.”

But he couldn’t wait for “another day” to end. Rain was forecast in two days and it took at least a day to search for stragglers and drop some wildflower seeds. Alone and unannounced, I raised my hoe in greeting, cleaned up the last bit of wild mustard, tossed in some wildflower seeds, and congratulated myself. It’s not like he won the Nobel Prize. But still, it felt pretty good when I leaned on the hoe and looked at “my park.”