“The love of gardening is a seed once sown that never dies.”

—Gertrude Jekyll (1843–1932; a British horticulturist, garden designer, artist, and writer.)

Confession is good for the soul, so gather round as I confess.

Please, if you wouldn’t mind, might I implore you to lean in just a little closer. I don’t want the weeds to hear.

“Say whaaaattt?”

Yes. You heard it right. I don’t want the weeds to hear. I’ve discovered that they have extrasensory powers (never before known and never before explored) that allow them to know a gardener’s unspoken thoughts from hundreds of yards away, especially when the weeds think they’ve won the battle.

Some days, I think they’ve won the battle, too. So that’s the first part of my confession. Believe it or not, I’m starting to feel a wee(d) better.

It’s been a rough gardening season here on my mountain. Actually, since I am confessing (laying bare my gardener’s soul right here in front of the whole world, lean in and have a close look at my pain, but don’t mess up the few strands of hair that I have left), let me be brutally honest. It’s been a tougher-than-nails gardening season here on the mountain.

It got off to a really good start. Spring came early, nearly a full month, and I accomplished lots, especially ripping out shrubs that had outgrown their spaces. I even managed to thoroughly weed several garden beds.

Then, after dinner each day, I’d go deckside, lean back (all lazy-like), survey my progress, raise high my Gin and Tonic, and toast not only all that I had accomplished but also all the glorious weeding triumphs ahead of me.

Looking back, I realize that was my mistake. No. No. Not the Gin and Tonic. A Gin and Tonic is never a mistake as long as it’s made with Bombay Sapphire or Hendricks. The mistake was my boastful toasting. The damned weeds heard my every unspoken thought, and they went on the offensive.

I didn’t just make that up. I know for a fact because one day, I heard them chatting amongst themselves whilst I was raising a second toast. They didn’t mince a weed.

Japanese Knot Vine: Did you hear that? He’s confessing his weaknesses to all his readers throughout the world!

Johnson Grass: Weaknesses? Ha! More like his utter defeat! Did you hear him babbling about our victory?

Fern: Oh, don’t you all just love how he’s pouring his poor little heart out? He’s silly if I ever heard silly.

Ivy: Yes, but don’t get too cozy, my leafy friends. He’s onto us – he knows we’re more than just your average weeds. We’re up-and-coming. His garden is our focus.

Japanese Knot Vine: Ivy’s right. Our psychic powers are legendary. We can sense his thoughts from every corner of his gardens and deep into his deep, dark woods.

Fern: And let’s not forget his most revealing Gin and Tonic confession. That’s where our plan takes root.

Johnson Grass: The Gin and Tonic? Is that some sort of secret weapon?

Fern: Well, sort of. You see, when he’s sipping on that stuff, his guard is down. He’s practically defenseless, especially when he makes it a double!

Ivy: Excellent. So, what’s the master plan, oh wise and vengeful weeds?

Japanese Knot Vine: Let’s just wait him out.  While he’s toasting his “triumphs,” we will bide our time in the shadows.

Fern: And then?

Johnson Grass: And then, my leafy accomplices, when the dark clouds gather and the rain pours down as it is about to pour down for the next two weeks …

Ivy: We strike! We grow faster, taller, and thicker. We wrap around his plants like a cozy blanket. He won’t know what hit him!

Japanese Knot Vine: We’ll show him that the real victory lies with us.

Fern: Revenge is ours!

Johnson Grass: Get ready, my weedy companions. The rain is our cue, and this time, we’re taking over that mountain top garden that he thinks belongs to him!

As much as I hate to confess it, the Weedsters did exactly as they plotted. They wrought havoc upon me and my gardens during this year’s Sheep’s Rain that came later than usual. (I wrote all about it in “Human Being, Not Human Doing.” Remember?) Without a doubt, the Weedsters caught me off guard.

TANGLED AS ONE, THEIR WHISPERS ROSE UNHEARD AS I DROVE DOWN THE DUSTY ROAD:

Rain and shadows, our powers align,
Gypsy Moths will join us, a force malign.
Towering oaks: brace for the blight.
Unity’s strength, our dark flight.

With Gypsy Moth allies, our plans will unfold,
the old gardener’s excitement, already he’s told.
He’s leaving now with smiles, but oh, the surprise,
Upon his return, the shock in his eyes:

No leaves will remain, the forest will be bare.
Our triumph will be visible in the open sky.

To make matters even worse, right after the nearly catastrophic Sheep’s Rain, I headed off to Vermont for two weeks. As I left, I sighed a painful sigh as I confessed to myself that the Weedsters were gaining the upper hand. But, hey! I was off to celebrate Mary E. Wilkins Freeman and my edition of her Green Mountain Stories. I’d resume my war with the weeds when I returned triumphantly home from my book tour.

Off I went on my merry way, pumped up with such great expectations that I didn’t have my ear to the ground as the Weedsters plotted my demise.

During my time in Vermont, I didn’t have one wee(dy) thought whatsoever. But when I returned home, a heavy burden fell on my gardener’s soul. I could see it from down in the Valley as I looked up to the mountains, precisely to the spot where I knew my home to be. Half of the mountain–hundreds of acres, including my 20–had trees with no leaves. As I drove up my mountain road, I was shocked beyond belief: my home was standing in the midst of towering, leafless oaks. Worse, my weedy world–now high above my wobbly knees–was thick with wooly, black Gypsy caterpillars.

Even though I had not heard the Weedsters whispering their threats as I drove off to Vermont, I now witnessed their vicious vengeance: they had joined forces with Gypsy Moths in a conspiracy against me.

Others, too, have conspired against me in the past, and I have managed to survive. I had no doubt in the world that I would survive this attack, too.

I knew exactly what I would do. But I did not dare even think the thought because I knew that the Weedsters would know. The next morning, I harnessed myself to my Weedwhacker and started cutting large swaths of weeds, level with the ground, sometimes so close dust devils swirled heavenward. The Weedsters knew that the end was near for them.

I did not realize, though, that they were on to me, and they were conspiring a horrendous attack. They came up with a sinister pact to enlist another unlikely ally:

Ivy (Dancing a sinister dance, its tendrils all twisted): Listen closely, my brethren. Our time has come to strike a blow that will shake the very core of our gardener. Let us extend our influence beyond the confines of earth and air and beckon the venomous ally that slithers within the gardener’s oasis.

Japanese Knot Vine (Quivering with malice and hissing in agreement): The Copperhead is a force to be reckoned with, its bite a venomous thrust of agony. Once it sinks its fangs into Ruby, the beloved companion of our gardener foe, despair will melt away his resolve to conquer us.

Pokeweed (Nodding in approval): But how do we lure this deadly ally to our cause? What bait shall tempt the Copperhead to plunge its venom into a dog as sweet and innocent as Ruby?

Johnson Grass (Waving its fronds and whispering): Let our whispers cast a spell on Ruby so that she will not recognize the Copperhead with all its poisonous power and instead she will mistake him for playful friend.

With their plan intricately woven, the weeds exchanged malevolent winks. All that the Copperhead had to do was to wait for poor innocent Ruby to come along as indeed she did, mistaking the pit viper as a serpentine toy for her amusement, opening her mouth fully to his viciously venomous bite. I became the victim, too: caring for Ruby during the two weeks of her recuperation kept me from weeding and weedwhacking. I lost most of June to the Weedsters.

What can I say of July? I doubt that any of us can speak kindly of the month that proved itself this year to be the hottest on record. Yet as a gardener battling the Weedsters, it gave me joy beyond measure. As the scorching fingers of July’s embrace tightened and the heat index reached 110 degrees, the once defiant weeds withered like forgotten dreams, their vibrant greens surrendering to the relentless heat, their grand subterranean structures reduced to delicate skeletons in July’s unforgiving furnace.

August has been somewhat cooler, especially at night, but as we approach the end of the month, it’s abundantly apparent that a drought plagues our land. Yet, again, as a gardener battling the Weedsters, it gives me joy beyond measure. The weeds now face a duel against their own roots. As the days stretch on with no rain in sight, their subterranean anchors strain and thirst for the lost melody of raindrops.

As September draws near and as the Weedsters grow weaker, I will renew my strategic assault. Each morning will find me armed with firm determination, renewed purpose, and (t)rusty tools. I will destroy the once-mighty weeds, whose defenses have been eroded by the scorching trials of July and the relentless drought of August. The garden will become a battleground, as I methodically reclaim the territory, unveiling patches of earth left parched and vulnerable. Day by day, defeat will resound through the heavens as I subdue the weeds one by one.

I know fully well that my September triumphs will be but a momentary stay against the attack that the Weedsters have launched against me this gardening season. It is, I fear, precisely as one of my kind neighbors kindly reminded me, just the other day, in the midst of my lamentations:

Matt: Give a weed an inch, and they’ll take a yard.

How prophetically true. But something else is true as well. This is my yard, my garden, and my mountaintop oasis. The Weedsters will not seize that which is mine. I will take back the proverbial “yard,” inch by inch.

What the Weedsters don’t understand is that they will die, and even if they return (as they surely will), they will be weakened and diminished. What the Weedsters don’t understand is that I, the gardener, will prevail. The heart of the Garden tells me so daily, reminding me that the love of gardening never dies.