Going down the brick path
No one becomes a gardener because they like to weed. At least, not me. The joy of gardening lies in seeing something grow, feeling the earth in one’s bare hands as one sets a little plant in the ground, or perhaps sows some seeds. It lies in nurturing, tending the little sapling, watering and watching it grow. It lies in the discovery of the first new leaves, flowers or fruit, or a sighting of the butterfly or the humming bird. It lies even in the endless waiting, when the ground looks barren but the mind is fertile, and plans and designs in abandon, unrestricted by realities. Tugging, pulling, wrenching out from the ground: those are the antithesis of all that gardening would appear to stand for.
Yet, it is weeding that takes most of my time in the garden. Each time I walk out to catch a better glimpse of a flower, I am waylaid by several weeds en route. They brazenly stare at me, until overcome by guilt, I stop to yank out a few, promising to come back to get the thorny ones later. By the time I get to the flower, I am out of breath and too tired to appreciate it. Every weekend, the garden poses what seem to be impossible tasks, that I am loath to start. What should be tackled today, what can be left for another day? Once I tried to weed systematically, determined to eradicate from my garden one single weed species at a time, starting with the nomadic raspberry. Gloves on to battle the thorny stems, I ripped out one plant after another, until it was lunch time when I stopped, mightily satisfied at the end of three plus hours. Later on that evening, when I stepped out to survey the fruits of my labor, it wasn’t long before I noticed one tall stem standing confidently among a group of phlox: how could I have missed that one? And then another, and another, so that by the time I left the garden, I was convinced that I could hear the raspberries chuckling.
Everywhere there is an onslaught of weeds: from the woods, the bittersweet vines stretch out and try to conquer my vegetable boxes, bindweed twines and chokes any stem it touches, and in many places, the garden looks green only because it is overrun by Creeping Jenny. This onslaught is especially visible on our little brick path. Leading the way to our vegetable boxes, the brick path is barely noticeable as such, overgrown as it is with weeds, and slimy with a coating of moss, which makes the journey to the boxes somewhat perilous. From crabgrass to ragweed to purslane to elder, my brick path is a veritable botanical garden of weeds. The garden seems an impossible challenge, but perhaps the brick path can be kept weed-free? After all, it is a limited space.
So, after days of staring, I woke up one weekend, determined to create a safe path to the vegetables. What if I filled in the joints between the bricks, where would the weeds grow then? Ha, take that you weeds!
I come from a culture where manual labor is not always appreciated, perhaps because casual labor is cheaper and more easily available. But I was raised in a household where my parents constantly did physical labor, and did not consider it beneath them. My mother, in her eighties now, still recalls with a certain pride that people sometimes mistook her for the gardener’s daughter in her youth, and until quite recently, would hoist all 4’-11” of her frame on to the attic when struck with a bout of cleaning fever. So, while my husband cooked lunch (which is his way of releasing steam), I wear my “work clothes”, and grab tools.
What needed to get done was sanding the joints, but like anything else, the preparation is more demanding than the actual task. First, the weeds need to be removed. Squatting down, I do this carefully and thoroughly, giving the job the care it deserves. One should, after all, never disrespect the enemy. It takes the better part of the morning to yank out the weeds, some of which have roots that go surprisingly deep, given that they are growing within joints that could be no more than a quarter inch wide. The next task of scraping the moss off the bricks with a wire brush is no less tedious, compounded by the fact that all the squatting for the previous two hours has taken an obvious toll on my legs. I am glad when it looks done, but a survey post-lunch exposes a less than satisfactory result: no weeds, but the moss shines defiantly green in many locations. My legs tremble and groan at the idea of any more squatting: there has to be another way. An online search reveals that the enemy of moss is vinegar and sunshine, and so the evening is spent in heartlessly pruning back the hibiscus that casts its shadow on the path, and spraying the bricks with a vinegar solution. The moss looks brown and withered the next morning. I get back on my haunches, with my wire brush for more scraping. A couple of hours later, it is time for the easier tasks: blowing the path, power washing the joints, and blowing again after the path has dried. Two days to prep the walk, and finally it looks clean, all the joints empty, no weeds and no slimy moss.
I stop at the local home improvements store that evening, and the salesman is eager to help. He launches into a description of different jointing materials. I am grateful that I can hold my own as we discuss the merits of regular fine sand versus polymeric sand. It is almost seven when I get back, bucket of polymeric sand in hand, but the incomplete path beckons me. Taking advantage of the long days of summer and ignoring the pain in my legs, I carefully sweep the sand into the joints, part laborer, part Zen novice. It is probably the easiest and most satisfying step in the process, sanding, watering and then waiting for the sand to set. The joints look neat; for now, there are no weeds growing in the cracks, the path has more sunlight and I can walk safely across. A good weekend’s worth of work.
It is funny how labor brings pride. While before I ignored the path, pretending not to notice the moss and the weeds, now I find myself going over and checking it every day. A professional would no doubt have done a better job, but personal labor has created ownership.
In a few days, cracks show: little gaps in the joints, where the sand was not fully swept in. There, a little dandelion has sprung, and here, a purslane dreams of conquering the world. I tug them out mercilessly as soon as I spot them. Aah, but I am but an amateur, out to combat hardened thugs with more lives than cats. Soon I find myself at it again: weeding, blowing, sanding, watering, this time taking more care to fill in little gaps in the joints.
The path looks clean and I appear to have the upper hand for now. But I know better: weeds are tenacious, and sneaky, finding a way where there appears to be none. This is a short calm before the inevitable storm. But who is to blame if I wait till I am overwhelmed by the storm, instead of starting at the sight of the first dark cloud?
I know I will need to go down this path again. And again. And again.
