海角大神

It鈥檚 the first day of the year with any real warm in it, and I鈥檓 hunkered in the garden to tidy up from winter. The soil is soft from recent rain and weeds slide right out, roots and all. The sun is perfect on my back, order is being restored, and a song is vining around inside my head on a loop. It鈥檚 a boomer anthem, 鈥淔or What It鈥檚 Worth鈥�: 鈥淭here鈥檚 something happenin鈥� here....鈥� Buffalo Springfield was the band, and I was in high school.

Ours was a vain and restless generation then, and we talked about things like being part of an underground movement, but we didn鈥檛 mean much by it, most of us. It sounded new and dangerous and sexy. It was the springtime of our lives. So the song fits the day, I guess.

What鈥檚 happening here is new growth exploding under the leaf litter. There鈥檚 rumor of an insurrection of sedums in the parking strip. Everything鈥檚 coming up, and not all of it is authorized.

I鈥檓 evicting the forget-me-nots, wherever I find them, and the lemon balm, and an unruly mob of bulbs I might have paid good money for decades ago. Not one of them is at any risk of being eradicated: This is purely a containment operation. I come across a clump of sticks with an eruption of green at its base and squint at it. Is that the cool plant I vowed to divide in the spring so I could have more of them? Or is that the other one I swore to rip up by its little root-hairs just as soon as it poked into view?

It gets a pass, for now.

I鈥檝e learned that when a song rattles around my mind for no reason, I can usually find the trigger for it somewhere in the lyric, so I chase it down, humming. And there it is: 鈥淭here鈥檚 battle lines being drawn.鈥� Yes, there are! You were a bad idea, sweet woodruff. This is penstemon territory, and you don鈥檛 play nice. Out you go.

I see you there, tiny little rogue euphorbia, getting ready to march. Don鈥檛 even think about it. 鈥淲hat鈥檚 going down?鈥� You鈥檙e going down. I鈥檓 in charge here.
I soldier on. Well, well, phygelius, my old friend, we meet again. I loved you for a while, but there鈥檚 a limit. We鈥檙e not going to have a replay of last year, when you shot up all over the place, sending up new troops from far-flung roots. If I see one sprig of you coming up anywhere but your originally assigned location, you鈥檙e going to be sorry. Really sorry.

Phygelius is quiet for the moment. Phygelius does know the meaning of an underground movement, and Phygelius has dreams of empire. It knows it鈥檚 in an old hippie鈥檚 garden. And it knows it鈥檚 not going to be sprayed-with-poison sorry. It鈥檚 not going to be painted-with-brush-killer sorry. It鈥檚 going to bide its time, and then 鈥� 鈥渨hat鈥檚 that sound?鈥� 鈥� it鈥檚 going to go off like a cluster bomb.

It will lose a few scouts to a tired woman鈥檚 overworked set of clippers, and then it will lay siege to the annual bed. It will be 鈥渙h well鈥� sorry. It will be 鈥淚鈥檒l get you next year鈥� sorry.

Fine. One more season, then. As long as you鈥檙e sorry.