“They’re weeds,” my wife says. In this case, adding, “We’ll let them fight it out.”
The idea of giving permission to certain uninvited plants to push out others no longer baffles me. Yes, I still retain the definition of a weed as being “nothing more than a flower out of place,” a concept first encountered back in my Boy Scout days; experience, however, has taught that not all weeds were created equal. Feisty agression and stamina, of course, are qualities separating a weed from domestic plants we’re actually attempting to nurture.
in reality, though, some weeds are easily seen as evil – poison ivy, for instance, or bindweed or the ground ivy that would easily overrun everything else we’re trying to raise. The gout weed invading from the neighbors’ side of the fence, despite its lovely flowers, is another. Add to that the thousands of maple sprouts we uproot each spring — they’re rather victims of landing in an area we’d rather not have return to forest quite yet.
My wife and I have had more than a few disagreements over what she considers weeds and what I happen to appreciate. Mint, for instance, with associations I have with hiking in the bluegrass region of Kentucky and pausing to drink cool spring water – although I’ve now come around to understand its ability to take over a bed if left unchecked. Wild strawberries, for another. In either instance, these are things one can eat. In other examples, we’ve actually transplanted some commonly defined weeds, such as Queen Anne’s lace, to corners of the yard that could use some blooming help. Others, such as the flowering forget-me-not and dame’s rocket, are largely encouraged to spread as they will, along with any number of self-seeding plants that technically are domestic but have in their own way run wild – sunflowers and calendula, especially.
These are lessons in discernment, tolerance, and discipline. Working a piece of ground for more than a few years gives exposure to plants one begins to recognize and automatically uproot while strolling through a patch, perhaps with an intention of eventually learning its name. Somewhere in my files is a Boston Globe page of common New England invasive plants – what I remember is that we have nearly all. What I didn’t expect when we moved to this plot was that I’d perceive a hierarchy of weeds. That is, ones I’ll tolerate one year, while focusing on more troublesome species. This year, for instance, I’ve been uprooting Virginia creeper as the marsh marigold flourishes. Last year, wild roses joined the list. Our wild asters, meanwhile, go largely unchecked.
One other consideration arises in the fact that we have pet rabbits. As a consequence, we see dandelion greens no longer as weeds but rather as a voraciously favored part of their cuisine, in season. (More recently, the greens have become part of our spring diet as well.) Tall grasses gone to seed at the edge of the yard likewise fit into their salad.
Fighting it out isn’t reserved solely for our friendly weeds. There are corners of our yard where a number of species are proliferating, leaving us uncertain which ones will predominate over time. Joe Pye weed in a Jerusalem artichoke patch, for instance. At the moment, I’m anticipating their succession of blossoms, a definite improvement over what was there when we moved in. It’s not the orderly beds I once envisioned, nor the Japanese gardens I’ve long admired, but it is a style I’ve come to appreciate and even encourage, in my own small way. It’s not quite survival of the fittest, except for “fittest at the table,” as food or as a floral cutting. Fight it out, then, with a referee.
