Whether We Weed It or Not…

The song goes something like… “Though April showers may come your way, they bring the flowers that bloom in May.” Obviously, that’s an eastern song. 

In Santa Barbara it’s more like… “Though February deluges may fill our needs, in March we’re stuck with hella weeds.”

I have bonsai trees. This being repotting season, I’m taking them out of the pots, trimming the roots, taking out the old soil and replacing it with new, and then carefully putting the bonsai back into their pots. Easy-peasy as my buddy Max says. Except, the pots are also full of long-legged weeds winding through and through the roots. And unless I can get the weeds in their entirety, they will come back with a vengeance.

“Wow, dude, thanks for the extra space. I’m thinking of starting an entire weed family now.”

And if doing battle with the little guys wasn’t enough, my wife made a timely observation. “Whoa, look at all the weeds under your bonsai shelves! Let’s spend the entire day cleaning them up. Whattaya say?”

If Pat had heard what I said under my breath, I might be looking up from the weeds’ vantage point. Instead, I diplomatically said: “I would love to weed under my shelves, dear, maybe we can pencil that in for next month or the month after.”

Those of you who know us know that I am a procrastinator extraordinaire, whereas Pat likes to take on a big project and fix all the problems ASAP. I know. I am her largest work-in-progress. Sure enough, she quickly grabbed a large bin, then had another small request: “Can you take all the trees off your shelves so they are not in our way?”

Let me describe my typical bonsai. I’ve owned it for years. Nurtured it with regular watering and fertilization and, as it has grown, I have put it into larger and larger ceramic pots. Bonsai soil does not contain any of that lightweight dirt stuff, instead it consists of several kinds of volcanic rock, emphasis on the word rock. So, many of my trees are what can be fondly referred to as back-breakingingly heavy. I started singing: “Weeding in the summer is less of a bummer. Even in September, it’s a time to remember. Lalala.”

Pat clapped, then handed me a pair of gloves, “before they get any larger,” she said.

People compare kids to weeds as in “they are growing like… what are you feeding them?” My two stepsons are like 6’4” so we got asked that a lot. We also look diminutive in family photos. 

Gangbusters “growing with incredible speed, intensity and massive success” is another great descriptor that could apply to my expanding waistline as well to weed growth. “But not to your weed-pulling skills,” Pat said. It’s unnerving when she reads my mind.

I finished placing all my pots (did I mention they were heavy?) on the patio stones so the benches were now bare. I grabbed my lower back and grimaced loudly. Pat, who has hearing like one of those radio telescoping arrays they point at space, didn’t appear to hear me. So, I grabbed a bucket and started manually yanking away. The time seemed to fly by. “Five minutes since the last time you asked,” Pat said, anticipating my question.

“How about I get us a couple of beers, like we are DIY construction guys working on a project almost unfathomably huge? I could make popcorn, too. Or go the store and get some chips and salsa…”

“Sounds great, dear,” she said. “Right after we finish this one section.” I peered down the long, endless row of shelves until it faded into the distance. Should I try another grimace?

Amazingly, all the time I was plotting how to get out of the great weed massacre of 2026, my bucket was miraculously getting filled. And I could actually see the difference. I even found a pair of pruners I’d lost in 2023 and a 2005 iPod mini with songs from mostly broken-up bands. What else is buried out here? Money? Lost jewelry?

“Well, I think that’s enough for today,” Pat said. “Beer time?”

“Actually, I think I might just keep going for a few more minutes. You know me. I hate to stop short.” 

“Riigghhtt,” Pat said.