How nobody’s park became mine

There is a small three-cornered property, probably less than a quarter of an acre, located between my house and three others. I walk past it every morning and watch it get overgrown with weeds. The owner has not lived in his house for about 15 years. Once or twice a year he sends a gardener to clean the little park. But the weed cycle soon takes over again.

I have been particularly offended by the small, round, black weeds that dotted my clothes. They were the devil to shake. So I decided to weed them myself while the flowers were still in bloom, before the little beastly stickers formed. It only took two years to get rid of them. I thought it was a wonderful thing. Almost magical. Why had he put up with the stickers for ten years? It’s not my property, I guess that was the reason. I’m not supposed to take care of him.

Which reminds me of a big fight my kids had many years ago over a little flower garden I had made for them in our front yard. Each child wanted “my own garden.” I don’t remember if I convinced them or not, but I do remember telling them that “this garden belongs to whoever works in it.” Maybe I just convinced myself.

Anyway, let’s go back to my neighbor’s park. After stickers, the next arrival on the marijuana scene was thistles. Beautiful purple color at first, its prickly leaves hurt. Ultimately, they produced an explosion of seed fluff that planted tiny thistle seeds all over my garden. It took me four years to get rid of thistles in my own garden. So I finally made war on the thistles in the little park so they wouldn’t infest my property. That took me another four years. Although, truth be told, the last few years had only produced one or two stalwart stragglers who had evaded my killing hand. Or glove, since he couldn’t touch the thorny leaves with his bare hand.

But I didn’t even consider tackling the wild mustard that grew thick and healthy after the winter rains started. Oh, I made an attempt to pull out the larger plants near my own part of the garden without mustard, when the soil was moist and easy. But it was daunting, there were so many. And the hill on the side near the owner’s house was too steep to stand on. Mustard, mustard everywhere. It couldn’t be helped. I did not have time. After all, I had wild mustard in my own field that I still struggled with, driving them back a few feet each year.

But suddenly, for some unknown reason, last month my weeder’s eyes gleamed ominously at the helpless wild mustard seedlings that littered the dark earth like green stubble at 5 o’clock. Yes, it was discouraging. But heck, it wasn’t like my four acres, it was just a little triangular park. Maybe he could just dig the now brittle nasty greens for ten or fifteen minutes every morning. Hell, I could always quit, couldn’t I?

But I didn’t give up. After three weeks, only a small green spot remained. Hooray, I thought, I could finish it today! I called my next door neighbor, who I thought might be the only one interested in celebrating my humble victory with me.

“Do you have five minutes free?” I asked. I want to show you my progress in the little park. It’s hard to believe, but I think I’ve pretty much eliminated all the wild mustard. I want you to witness the last green spot.”

Poor me! All she said was “could you do it another day?” Her hair was in curlers and she was busy cleaning windows. She is the older generation like me. We are the generation that still washes our own windows. We do it slowly, a few at a time. Such menial “woman’s work” has not yet been gentrified out of our blood.

“Are you going to plant some wildflowers?” he suggests. I kind of bristled at that. Maybe she was just too sensitive, but if she wasn’t interested enough to come over and look, how was she telling me how to do it? Or, on the contrary, maybe that was her way of showing her interest. She had some wildflower seeds but they were expensive and some came in the small $4 packet. Although I did have some left over from a big project on my property after the 2007 wildfire took all my trees.

“I hadn’t thought of that,” I replied. “I don’t think they’ll grow without being watered, but I happen to have a few, so I’ll throw some in and see how they do.”

But he couldn’t wait for “another day” to end. Rain was forecast in two days and I needed at least a day to look for stragglers and drop some wildflower seeds. So, alone and unannounced, I raised my hoe in salute, cleared out the last little patch of wild mustard, tossed in a few wildflower seeds, and congratulated myself. It wasn’t like he had won the Nobel Prize. But still, I felt great as I leaned on the hoe and surveyed “my park.”