W.eed W.arrior W.isdom
The Weed Warriors are out in force this week. The air is thick with the their motorized offerings. New and improved lighting technology is being installed to better display landscaping accomplishments. Only the body language of the hose play has changed. Despite the desert's characteristic greening response to the modest amounts of rainfall, the city reservoirs are dangerously near empty. Life outside the suburban uniformity is in extreme distress. For the first time in Weed Warrior Wisdom, the end of summer water restrictions and burn bans have not been lifted. The Weed Warriors ply their hoses with guilty glances over their shoulders with the guilt of a good child in fear of Mama catching them with their most available smoke.
In desert lore, this is nothing new. There always have been and always will be droughts in the desert. That is what makes it a desert. During extreme droughts such as this one, the drought conditions will naturally be felt in the green edges of the desert. It is the commercially conditioned, technology empowered weed warrior who is new to this equation. In the first immigration waves of European and Asian farmers, the current technology was not available and Nature had no need of lawyers or their enforcing minions to explain the water restrictions. Empty, diseased cisterns and stock tanks spoke in uncompromising terms. Motorized humans are notoriously ignorant of life outside their air conditioned isolation chambers.
For my eccentric nature, this is a time for gathering compost. My newly established compost pile is hungry for the green manure. In the old neighborhood the Weed Warriors and their wives already knew I was a head case and capable of offering lectures on what they call "weeds." I can even show them the plants which provide the oils for their all-natural products they buy in the health food stores, right their in their carpet grass. Of course, they don't want to know. I was content to have them summarize it as, "Leave the crazy witch alone." Works for me.
I really don't want to fend off new batch of weed warriors. Looking at the thick supplies of green manure growing in the yard, waiting to be gathered fills me with angst of their well-intentioned offerings of manly toys and the expertise with with which they perform the noisy, smelly functions.
My mind fills with the encouragement chant of the last Alanon embrace to comfort me. "Animo! Animo! Animo!"
I can do this. My compost pile is hungry.
In desert lore, this is nothing new. There always have been and always will be droughts in the desert. That is what makes it a desert. During extreme droughts such as this one, the drought conditions will naturally be felt in the green edges of the desert. It is the commercially conditioned, technology empowered weed warrior who is new to this equation. In the first immigration waves of European and Asian farmers, the current technology was not available and Nature had no need of lawyers or their enforcing minions to explain the water restrictions. Empty, diseased cisterns and stock tanks spoke in uncompromising terms. Motorized humans are notoriously ignorant of life outside their air conditioned isolation chambers.
For my eccentric nature, this is a time for gathering compost. My newly established compost pile is hungry for the green manure. In the old neighborhood the Weed Warriors and their wives already knew I was a head case and capable of offering lectures on what they call "weeds." I can even show them the plants which provide the oils for their all-natural products they buy in the health food stores, right their in their carpet grass. Of course, they don't want to know. I was content to have them summarize it as, "Leave the crazy witch alone." Works for me.
I really don't want to fend off new batch of weed warriors. Looking at the thick supplies of green manure growing in the yard, waiting to be gathered fills me with angst of their well-intentioned offerings of manly toys and the expertise with with which they perform the noisy, smelly functions.
My mind fills with the encouragement chant of the last Alanon embrace to comfort me. "Animo! Animo! Animo!"
I can do this. My compost pile is hungry.
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