Propped between the two windows on the south side of the studio is a black and white photo of E.B. White, typing something–perhaps a New Yorker piece–in his own backyard “studio” in Maine. A large window is open for any summer breeze from nearby Blue Hill Bay. In addition to our writing studios, White and I share two other commonalities: we are both wearing wrist watches and button-down shirts with the long sleeves rolled up to the elbow. Alas, there the similarity ends. I don’t know what White was writing on that day, but I know he was one of the greatest prose writers of the 20th century. Although I’ll never produce a single paragraph of comparable prose, I long ago accepted the fact that one just does the best one can do. I advise my internal critic to go take a hike (or jump in a nearby bay) while I try to put some words together and see what happens.
The past month I’ve been thinking a lot about weeds. At this season of the year, I spend most of my mornings, afternoons, and evenings using various techniques for killing weeds. Although I possess several hoes appropriate for many weeding tasks, most of the time I’m on my hands and knees, pulling the weeds up by hand. I enjoy weeding. It’s probably my favorite garden activity, and I occasionally wonder why I find so much pleasure from this endless, repetitive process. Perhaps some day I will compose an essay to help me understand this phenomenon. But at this time of the year, at this stage in my life, I lack the time or intelligence or skill to compose such a text. What follows are simply a few random observations on weeds and weeding.
• I included this quote in the Spring ‘22 issue of The Garden Quarto: “I am one of those odd creatures who actually enjoys weeding. I find it utterly absorbing, on my hands and knees stirring the earth, pulling out interlopers, looking at flowers and leaves up close, their patterns, their fragrance, familiarizing myself with their habit and what they like or don’t like.” ~Paige Dickey
To be continued