Four a.m. My day began under our king-sized bed. I’d hopped out, finished making it, but then suddenly wondered what lay beneath. An ancient Popular Mechanics magazine, a cheap golf club (don’t ask) and two dusty antique wall clocks lay there, forgotten. The clocks, flat on their backs, hadn’t ticked off time in a decade. Hmmm. It was long past time to renew an old vow: sell anything not used for a year.
I mentally composed an ad right then.
Mid-morning. It was so hot and muggy!
I set to work weeding behind a big shrub, sweating in the intense heat, pondering mad dogs and gardeners out in the midday sun- when two men strode in, talking rapidly. One was really agitated. It wasn’t flowers that dominated their conversation, but bedbugs.
…“and the exterminator’s there, but I won’t let ‘em spray poison on my clothes and pillow. Janet’s mad – wants me to toss ‘em, but I love that pillow…#%$&! Prolonged heat does kill the buggers, but are we supposed to seal and cook the house? Bake them in our oven??”
“Excuse me,” I interrupted, hoping they wouldn’t mind.
“I couldn’t help but overhear. There’s a solution. Use your big portable oven.” Startled and confused, they peered down at me. I plowed on. “Go home, seal your pillows, blankets and clothes into black contractor bags and toss them into your car or truck- which you gotta park in full sun.
Wait a few hours.
100% Megabugadeath.”
They stared. I carried on. “It’s getting so blinking hot now that metal cars’ interiors are near to roasting. And the heat just keeps rising. Every bedbug will be six feet up in record time.”
The victim’s angry, frustrated face blossomed into a wide grin. “You know, that. just. might. work.”
They hurried out, muttering, “...and it’s only 10 o‘clock…”
I sat back on my heels, grinning with satisfaction. I’d been educated about bedbugs. Friends in another state had fought an epic battle with the creatures, which had invaded their home, probably via a visitor’s suitcase. From their despairing conversations, one interesting sniglet of information had taken root in my brain. Now I’d passed it on.
Why had those men come into the secret garden in the first place? I adjusted my mosquito veil and grinned. The world is full of mysteries.
Another pernicious weed yielded to my probing fingers. See? You don’t always ruminate about garden-y things, Dee. Well, yeah, I do. I constantly ponder the bugs who live in here, usually with angry admiration. Bedbugs weren’t so different...
Enough of that. I switched to ordinary grass thoughts.
Wily green grass blades often tiptoe into my flowerbeds to arrange themselves among the innocently accommodating blades of, say, flashy, low-growing Red Baron grass, and I’m fooled – for a while. Fortunately, though, ordinary grass still hasn’t figured out how to turn red from the waist up. So I knelt out there in the boiling sun and stared quietly for a while at the invited Red Baron grass- which starts out green- then did a slow scan. What didn’t look quite right? Aha! There! With a growl of satisfaction I yanked a tall, skinny masquerader out, and pounced gleefully on others that had quietly hunkered down amid the Cranesbill geraniums.
Cheap triumphs like these keep me going.
Still on hands and knees I peeked under lavender and daisies, hunting for another obnoxious invader- horrid Houttuynia. Years ago this little groundcover’s gorgeous, multicolored leaves had made me swoon. Love-struck, I brought one little honey home and tucked it in, ignoring my own rule- because she was so beautiful! (The Rule: Never Invite Anyone into my Beds Until I’ve Done a Thorough Background Check.)
I’ll pay for a long time for allowing passion to overrule common sense.
Darling Houttuynia had lived here for only one summer when, checking under another plant, I saw seven more...
But denial ain’t just a river in Egypt. Nah, I’d thought; she wouldn’t have had time to fool around so soon...She’s so sweet, so little and pinkly delicate. It’ll be fine...
Uh-huh. Once again, I’d underestimated a plant’s capacity for mastering multiplication as it basked in cow poop. Months later
I dug out upteen fat newborns, slowly coming to grips with my idiocy.
It got even hotter.
Ouch! Somebody had crawled up my pant leg to dine on my calf. Bugged, I bolted out of the bushes, ran into the garage, hopped out of my cargo pants and shook them, hard. Something little fell out and flew off. A closer inspection revealed a trail of bites. Rats! I’d forgotten to rubberband my cuffs.
Bugs absolutely love me. It’s mystifying and maddening.
Hot and bothered I threw on my pants again and snatched up a hose. Full blast, I thought, and bent over to unleash a torrent of cold water that drenched my neck, hairy head and entire upper body.
Much better. Sopping wet I stood there, not thinking a single thought, when- Ding! In walked four somberly dressed visitors, who’d probably come from the funeral home two doors down. There I stood, hose-to-nose, soaking wet, grinning sheepishly, with my fly still unzipped. The visitors stared, laughed nervously, and edged away.
Ah, well. They’d just witnessed a garden nerd in full bloom...