The Garden Problems of Jack and the Giants

I chugged a glass of water and put on my cut-off jean shorts. It was the preparations to enter the jungle. I didn’t really think it would be much of a jungle—I used the term in jest. Three months of soaking up the summer sun in ways outside of the garden had left my little fenced off patch unattended. I’ve never had any luck with summer gardens here. By mid-summer the humidity and intense amount of insects seem to ruin all my attempts. Fall, on the other hand, is when the garden returns to viability. The autumn equinox is my planting date, and she approaches fast. So I slipped on the over-sized gardening flip flops, and headed out to the back of the property. How much can it really have grown up in three months? It can’t be that bad. Well…crap.

The weeds that exceed my five foot two inches - The Giants. Just call me Jack.

It’s okay. I brought music. I like extremes. I burn the candle to the wick. I plugged in the headphones.

I used all my body strength to give the weeds at the perimeter a nice tug. A thorough tug. A useless tug. Tools are in order.

Beauty Berry season is here again.

Sweat began to drip down my forehead. Success! I made it a foot within the garden, among the giants. My garden has become the land of the giants—a place where bees are very happily buzzing around weed flowers all day long.

The blasted radio. It is impossible to find a station that doesn’t play something that is crap every other song. I can’t sit still long; I like extremes. The phone screen was covered in sand from sandy fingertips switching the station every two minutes, then back into the pocket. Gah! Eighty’s hair band—make it stop! The phone was back out of the pocket.

Cut off jeans, husband's over-sized flip-flops, and that way too long headphone cord that just butts its way into everything.

A pile was forming outside the garden. A sizeable pile, which is easy enough when a few giants are piled together. Sweat was dripping down my face, blurring my vision by way of trickling down my glasses. The blasted headphone cord got snagged for the fiftieth time on a giant that was being tossed through the open garden gate.

And then, the candle was burnt to the wick. One quarter of the garden was bare. The human bushhog had left her mark once again. Jack the Human Bushhog made the decision that the bees ought to have something to attend to, and therefore half the garden would be left to the giants. This may have been a self-serving decision that conveniently helped out the bees.

The handsome, wimpy rooster avoiding me. He won't let me cuddle him, which I find very frustrating.

I did a quick sniff check of the grass just outside the garden gate. No fresh chicken poop smell, all was clear. I collapsed there and stared up at that blue. Sweet, sweet blue. There wasn’t enough of it this summer. Last year I managed to plant my garden a week before Hurricane Irma hit. Irma only gave us some notable winds and rain that turned dry land to swamp. She offed my olive tree with her swamp. But, she did drop a torrent of leaves for groundcover atop the baby plants in the garden, and she quenched them with all that rain. Who knows, maybe the same will happen this year.

Two creeps were watching me up there. Bug eating creepy crawlies, that is.

No matter, tomorrow I’ll be back at it. I’ve got another quarter to knock out. Maybe I’ll get a shorter headphone cord, or maybe I’ll decide the bees need more flowers. There are so many giants, and only one Jack.