The Promise of Spring


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I spent a good part of the day Sunday fiddling with the sprinkler system. This heralds the annual ritual of prepping for the long, hot summer ahead, adjusting spray patterns and replacing various parts that didn’t survive the winter (or the lawn mower). Just in time for the growing season. Which in my case begs the question, “Why bother?” For if the past can teach us anything, it’s that Curt plants and God laughs.


This is all that remains of…well, I honestly don’t even remember what the hell it was I planted here last year. All I know is that it preferred death over a second season in my care. So be it. Via con Dios. Next up, an Asiatic Lily, which beckoned with a cheerful, vibrant yellow/orange bloom at the store. At least one gardening website calls it a “hardy” flower that requires little care. That description notwithstanding, the betting line amongst my neighbors is offering 12 to 1 odds that it won’t make it to October.

The euonymus in the backyard has fought a valiant, if hopeless, battle since I first planted it half a decade ago, growing at a glacial pace. But now it is somehow even smaller than it was last year, leading me to believe that it may have begun some strange reverse aging process, in the manner of Benjamin Button.

two eunys

I sent an email to the horticultural specialists at Colorado University offering them an opportunity to observe this unprecedented phenomenon, but received only a terse reply assuring me that Mulder and Scully would be out shortly to investigate.

I have no answers, nor am I looking for them any more. This power I wield simply is, like Superman’s laser-vision. And as with any true superhero, I even have my own costume. But do you have any idea how difficult it can be to mow the grass while draped in that long black robe and dragging that scythe around?


16 thoughts on “The Promise of Spring

  1. Yes, I laughed, and yes, I enjoyed the post. Maybe you should ditch the robe, and adopt the technique used in Liberia: grass-cutting with a machete.

    I suspect you’re not after gardening tips, but I will drop this link, just because.

  2. OMG, I laughed so hard at your euonymus commentary — but surely you wanted me to? Those grow mad here. Just, all the time have to cut them back MAD. I will say, it may be smaller, but it looks healthier.
    My Asiatic Lilies haven’t bloomed yet, but they’re green and a foot tall. They make babies. In my garden. I don’t know what they’ll do there, but you have my very best wishes.
    Thanks for the laughs!

  3. I’m a little bit nervous about introducing Mulder and Scully to your miraculous anti-productive powers. The most recent attempt to revive X-files was pretty flat and they don’t need any more exposure to things that might kill the show even faster;)

  4. Fucking hilarious, but I will taunt you with hope one last time:

    Go native.

    No, I don’t mean garden naked. Or, go ahead and garden naked, what do I care? Only your wife and pets will need to find meds and a therapist. Okay, and that one neighbor, too.

    No, I mean take a gander at the stuff that grows without encouragement around you and close to you (go hiking), look it up, find other stuff of the same genus, then plant the summabitches. For instance, yarrow is a biggie in the semi-arid desert of Colofrickin’rado. The stuff is everywhere. Did you know it comes in other colors than distressed yellow? Go get some. Then, there’s native grasses. There are kinds that won’t spread all over, they’ll just perch next to your house in a cute clump. Next, prickly pear and other assorted spiny anti-neighbor dog devices. Plant a hedge of delicious cactus and watch the bastard try to crap on your property THIS summer. Then there’s the shrubs, the trees, the bulbs–literally hundreds of goodies that really do live up to the low maintenance, low water, anti-deer hype. You don’t have to redesign the entire north 40, just try out one or two plants each spring.

    Yeah, my internal landscaper’s been activated. Enjoy it and move on. Just don’t give up. The gardener has spoken. PS: sage.

  5. Pingback: A Landscaper’s Life for Me | Lies Jack Kerouac told Me

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