weeding and potting up

M has been obsessed with the potential monetary value of all the seedling volunteers in our garden. Every time I pluck a fuzzy, crowded borage seedling or a tenacious valerian plant from the earth and toss it on the compost pile he cringes "That's $2.00 right there!" See, our local farmer's market has a "community table" to which neighbors might bring their extra vegetables and plants to sell, and the market takes a small cut for their troubles. "So, if we charge $2.00 each for small plants, then that's two, four, six -right here in this bed! -Check it out! - I see maybe $30.00!" Since this discovery, M has viewed these dogged and ubiquitous sprouts in a whole new light and he will not let me weed them in the manner to which I am accustomed.

But this afternoon upon arriving home from work I determined that I was going to weed these suckers, and if M wanted to pot them all up and make his fortune it was now or never. We got to work and in short order filled up several flats with tiny pots of borage, valerian, oregano, clary sage, feverfew, calendula, nasturtiums, sunflowers and st. john's wort. On my knees in a mess of sunflowers, I questioned whether the market for obscure medicinal herbs was as robust as M imagined. I thought that one flat might do the trick nicely. But he was finally satisfied and I was permitted at long last to yank the remaining "weeds" from among my favored flowers, vegetables and herbs.

Weeding in the far-back, semi-shady garden bed, the long-neglected one that lies covered in a dense mat of black nightshade (or some other indistinguishable horror), I pulled heavy, violent handfuls and caught the sudden scent of a familiar herb and regretted my move. I slowed down, picking carefully, and was startled to discover the bed of dill hidden beneath the ugly, tangled mess. I tried to take greater care as I crawled along the rows. You never know what you might find in a garden so messy as mine.

As I traipsed in and out of the garden gate overhung by hop vines, the vines raked my arms like razor wire until I lopped the rambling cords and trained them to be nicer to passer-bys. I tied up the tomatoes, and moved things around as usual (sometimes it feels that is all I do). I cropped the dangling apple branches, heavy with swelling green fruit. I am anxious to cobble together a bit more light for the beans and squash growing under its arching canopy. The soaker hoses squeaked and gurgled at the four corners of my small world.

Now I settle in for an evening read (Jude the Obscure gets the dog-ear treatment tonight) and I reflect on a fruitful evening --dirt crammed under my bitten nails, crimson stripes stinging my arms, and at least $100.00 worth of weeds to sell at the market come Sunday.