I have never liked weeds. I prefer a beautiful lawn that looks like velvet. Weed free green as far as the eye can see.
When my two children were four and six, I decided to eliminate every weed in my yard.
I sprayed Round-Up. I killed every blade of grass and every single weed. (I would never do that again. I had no idea how it kills the grass, frogs, planet, etc.) I was left with a giant pile of dirt. My fabulous landscape architect tilled the dirt and brought in pristine, beautiful, pure, unadulterated grass.
I had the perfect lawn. The grass was like the velvet of my dreams. Not a weed in sight.
Then the unthinkable happened. About one month into my new suburban paradise, weeds exploded. They took over my yard.
I called every company I could find to eradicate these weeds. They all told me the same thing. You can’t spray new grass with chemicals for one year.
This was my version of hell. Weeds with no hope.
I talked to my dad about the problem. We lamented that there was no easy solution. Maybe I need to pull the weeds?
“Do you know how much work that will take?” he asked.
“Yes, I do. It will require daily work,” I miserably replied. "I have to do it. There's no one else."
Every morning, I walked outside and pulled weeds for one hour. I set my alarm. After an hour, I stopped working. For that entire hour, I spoke on the phone with my dad. We talked about everything in my life, his life and world events. We laughed. Sometimes I cried. I loved the sound of my father’s voice.
Suddenly, the hours added up. And I was done. The weeds were all gone. And I stopped calling my dad.
My dad passed away nine years ago, and I still miss those phone calls. And those weeds. There were not enough of them.
Last week a dear friend of mine posted a photo of a weed on Facebook. She wanted to know the type of weed and how to eliminate it.
I posted: Pull it.
She posted: There are too many
Oh what I would give for one more weed.