I Wish Terrorists Would Take Issue with my Hedges

Yard work is a funny thing. I don't mind doing it. In fact, there is a Zen-like bliss that comes from isolating yourself in a cocoon of small-engine noise and the visual serenity of staring at patterns in the grass for hours. But I find it really hard ot get motivated to do the yard work. Maybe motivated is the wrong word. All I have to do is look outside at the jungle that is taking over my driveway, and I'm motivated. I want the yard clean. It's just tough to make the time commitment.

If I don't do it soon, though, the Sierra Club will come in here and declare the hedges along my driveway a protected ecosystem. I think I saw a sloth in there the other night, but it's hard to tell. They're so slow-moving, you can't see those things at night. Maybe if they'd smile or something.

The problem is not one of maintenance. Mowing, blowing and edging I can handle, even though our front yard is nearly half an acre. No, my nemesis is that hedge row. And to call it a hedge row is an insult English boxwoods everywhere. The bushes are something called Thorny Elaeagnus. It's a bush that can grow as tall as a tree and spreads like a vine. And it has 1-2 inch thorns! It grows up to a foot per day. Getting rid of it usually results in cuts all over your arms. Think of it as Kudzu on steroids with a nasty disposition.

The bushes (let's call them Agnes) had been allowed to grow at least 10 feet tall in the years prior to our moving in. After trying to contain it, we've finally resolved to remove it -- not completely, just prune it down to a "hat rack." We've brainstormed a number of solutions. The first and most obvious choice was to invest in a herd of hedgehogs. Brilliant! But, it turns out that hedgehogs don't crave hedges the same way an attention hog craves attention. It's just a name. That left us with the challenge of liquidating our stock of hedgehogs. I thought it was a safe investment, especially since the brochure said they were "prized for their delicious meat and luxurious pelts."

Plan B was a more aggressive approach -- flamethrowers. The rising price of oil made that impractical. Plan C - appeasement. Our negotiators attempted to meet the demands of Agnes, but when the bushes referred to us as "nancy Chamberlains," we walked away and declared open war. I don't understand the Chamberlain thing, but no plant calls me Nancy. Plan D -- Fargo. We hat-rack the individual bushes then shove them into a wood chipper. Then I started thinking about those 20+ foot thorny limb/vines whipping about like a cat of nine tails, shredding me worse than if I were the main character in another Mel Gibson torture-mentary. I ditched that plan like my crazy college girlfriend who I only went out with on a bet.

Plan E -- convincing radical Islamic terrorists that my hedge row is an affront to the Quran. The problem is I'm too lazy to read the Quran to determine what would the offense would be. And what's up with all the different English translations of that word? Is it Quran? Koran? Couric? Somebody make a decision, please! Maybe I could convince them that Agnes is a symbol of the US economy...

Other failed plans: Plan F -- nanotechnology. The problem there was that the nano race are very secretive people and quite protective of their trade secrets. They are also easily offended by the misappropriation of the nano name. There goes the University of Illinois' plan to change their mascot to the Fighting Nano-monkeys! Plan G -- slave labor. That one went over like a lead balloon... kind of like this joke. Plan H -- anti-gravity potting soil. The bags floated away as soon as we put them on the utility trailer... along with the trailer. At least we saved enough to get rid of that lead balloon. Plan I -- introduction of natural predators. Did you know that plants don't have predators, per se? If so, why didn't you tell me. I don't think that botanist at Auburn has stopped laughing yet.

So we come to the final plan, Plan J -- hard work. Cut the stuff back, load it on a utility trailer and haul it to the dump. It could take days or even weeks, but it has to be done. I've got to move quickly, though. I just saw a very boxy-looking woman wearing a hemp dress and Birkenstocks casing the house in her Subaru Forester. I think the Sierra Club is on to me.