No one is making me dig my heart into a slab of clay at the corner of Kimball and McLean. When someone yanks out an allium bulb, or the City piles it with construction debris, I keep mantras running through my head: Give freely. It’s about the process. Practice letting go. This is public space. This land is my land, this land is your land.
But sometimes, these self-soothing thoughts are interrupted by drunk 20-somethings in quasi-edgy clothes, swaying down Kimball, shrieking with glee as they rip off the tops of cup plants.
This evening, I did a bit of weeding in “El Jardin de McLean.” I was wrapping up and taking pictures of new blooms and surprise patches of color when four young adults stumbled across McLean.
They are loud. They approach the fence. I figure they are going to check things out. Lots of people do. No. They are tearing the heads off the cup plants, which actually takes some effort. The stalk is fibrous, like celery; it’s a stringy, uneven mess if you try to break it apart by hand. Maybe their biceps are booze-powered.
By the time I make it around the corner, they are about 10 yards away. “What are you doing??!!” I yell. They look back at me with no shame. Instead, they start running in a conspiratorial way, like they have been busted by the dorky principal in a Disney sitcom for something they don’t really think is all that wrong. They continue to grab at plants and toss flowers on the ground. “What the fuck is WRONG with you??!!” I continue. As they scurry into the dusk, I send my final volley with an extra dose of disgust: “What kind of people ARE you?”
At least the woman with the shiny red vintage cruiser sort of apologized earlier this week for taking scissors to the rattle snake master and blazing stars—plants like tulips that don’t produce many blooms. One and done and all that.
My neighbor Joe buzzed my apartment. “Gin, I think someone is cutting the flowers!” He is protective of the garden, as are all the neighbors.
No time to grab keys or put on shoes. I hastily propped doors open so I would not get locked out and padded down the block in bare feet and PJ’s. “What are you doing?” A young woman who was stooped over the coneflowers with liatrus leaves in one hand and scissors in the other looked up calmly.
But it wasn’t a robust apology, and she kept trying to explain about the pressed flowers thing and I wanted to scream “then grow your own damn flowers!!!” but instead just explained that the garden takes a lot of work and that the native plants help the soil and the butterflies, blah, blah, blah. . .and we left it at that.
Last night I noticed that half of the nodding onions have been beheaded. Cleanly. Every other one. Sort of like someone was trying to be inconspicuous and moderately thoughtful. I also noticed some butterfly weed has been snipped. Those blooms would likely only be of interest to a flower presser. It reminded me of a time I was broken into and it took me a few days to discover all the things that had been taken. The biggest blow was my great-uncle’s Zeiss Icon SLR camera, something I prized dearly.
But I survived, and these plants will survive, or they won’t, and it won’t really matter that much. This is not “my land,” it is our land. Who am I to say what should be in these forgotten strips of soil? And it does look raggedy right now.
As I stared down the block, I gut-checked. Should I quit, just give up?? Nah. . . just keep planting. Next time I am going to say: “Hey, when are you free to help weed?”