Garden of Weeden

Just in case anyone read my Sun column this morning and decided to get the lawn police around to our house, and I'd be surprised if such a thing didn't exist in Naperville, I thought I'd put up some pictures of our gardening efforts some 27 years on....with just a little help from the boys of B and B Landscapes of course.

Out of towners can read it here:

Forget Weeds-B-Gone - how about Garden-B-Gone!
May 20, 2008


One of the nicest things about spring is seeing the garden in bloom again. Perhaps I should rephrase that. One of the worst things about spring is seeing the garden bloom again.
With it comes the promise of weeds, watering, digging and pruning, something that the gentle folk of Naperville seem to do instinctively. Unfortunately, Grumpy and I don't have so much as a green finger nail between us, let alone a green thumb. Every time I look out of the window I am amazed by the fact we bought a house with nearly half an acre of land attached to it. What were we thinking?
Our story starts not with the Garden of Eden, but the Garden of Weedin'. Our very first home was a little second floor apartment that backed onto a branch of the Tube railway line in Northwest London. It had its own postage stamp sized yard, with only a few flowers surrounding a square of crazy paving. Not having been a landowner before, Grumpy (who in those days was still only known as Whiney) thought doing yard work once a year would be sufficient.
"After all, it all dies off in the winter anyway," he reasoned.
Our little yard directly joined that of our downstairs neighbor, Petunia. She spent more time nurturing her little patch than she did indoors. It was pitiful to see her sweeping the snow away from her little plants in the winter, giving them warm soup to drink and probably wrapping tiny woollen scarves around their spindly stems.
"The previous people only did the garden once a month," she sneered at me one day. "I don't want any weeds coming on to my side, you know."
Poor Petunia hadn't had an easy time of it since we moved in. Within weeks our yard made the Brazilian rainforest look like botanical gardens. Still Grumpy did nothing and I always had my allergies to fall back on. By the summer things were unbearable. The garden was so overgrown we couldn't get the gate open. As for Petunia, I had to race down the path and throw myself through the front door to avoid her bitter attacks.
Finally Grumpy decided enough was enough. I think my telling him we would have to move if the garden wasn't dealt with may have had something to do with it, but I'm not sure.
He rented a trimmer that cut through the undergrowth like a knife through butter, albeit butter with large crumbs left in the tub. In next to no time the 20-foot high weeds were down to a 10-foot pile and the machine had only broken down once!
This, in turn, led to another dilemma. What should we do with the pile of slain undergrowth? There was certainly no collection service there like there is in Naperville.
Grumpy's first thought was to throw it over the fence onto the railway embankment. This proved unsatisfactory as there was so much garbage it made the overgrown embankment look untidy.
His next plan of action was to ignite it, but this was easier said than done. The pile was green, and whatever he threw on it - oil, firelighters, even lighter fuel, failed to start so much as a spark.
The heap became a curiosity. Our friends came round to see it, not in the least because in a valiant effort Grumpy had sprayed it with paint, hoping that would make it flammable. He wasn't amused when I suggested exhibiting in a modern art gallery.
In the end he simply moved the entire heap to a nearby area of waste ground and as far as we know it is still there clinging on to life. The whole saga took so long that by the time we had removed the waste, new weeds had triumphantly started to grow in its place.
This time there was no time to lose. Grumpy was a desperate man. It was either the weeds or him!
"I want something to get rid of my garden," he told the lady in the garden centre.
"Sorry, I don't understand," she said. "Do you mean the weeds or a particular plant?"
"No, all of it," he said.
"This is very good," she replied, holding up a little bottle. "But you mustn't get it near any plants you want to keep."
"I don't want to keep any," he insisted.
The assistant, who was obviously used to garden lovers, was horrified to meet a garden hater.
"Well there is this, but it is only used for clearing waste ground," she said, a worried look spreading across her face. "It really is lethal. I don't think it's what you want. Nothing will grow in the garden after using this."
"Perfect," said Grumpy. "Give me the largest size you have."
Nowadays we have a service trim and weed our yard. I resist the temptation to put plastic flowers in containers and pretend I have grown them myself. It may not be the prettiest yard in the area, but at least you can cross it without the aid of a scythe, camouflage and a tin helmet.