Each year, right about now, I want to declare it Throw-in-the-Trowel-Week, as the aftermath of spring’s tender, joyous effusion goes beyond charmingly fuzzy to just plain frowzy and tattered.
The garden has a bad case of what a friend calls “the shaggies,” not to be confused with similar terms for a hairdo or a dance, or even a variant of the charming British slang for sex. It’s looking messy out there.
In the second half of June, I’m overcome by the inclination to close my eyes — to make it all disappear in “see no evil” fashion. To go back indoors and rewatch episodes of “Six Feet Under” while entertaining fantasies of plowing under the worst garden areas and erasing them.
Know your weeds.