I found this, sitting on the shelf at Barnes and Noble on a night when I had to be out of the house. Long story that has nothing to do with gardening. Imagine my geekish excitment when I was perusing the edible flower books and peeking out between Sunset National Garden Book and Barbara Damrosch was this tome. Looks good. How much? No price.
I walk over to the book guy and sheepishly say, 'This might be a really dumb question, but how much is this book?" He looks on the back, the inside cover, the inside back cover and whips out his handheld scanner. "Ah ha! NOT a stupid question after all!"
He then gives me the bad news. "Forty-five dollars." Gulp. But aren't weeds free? Why so much? I hung my head in disappointment and headed back to the gardening section with my precious find. I was actually sad about putting it back, so I didn't. I bought it. And hot dang, I am so excited to have an entire book, glossy photos and all, of Midwestern United States Weeds. Mine. All mine!!
I know what a weed is. You know what a weed is. But there is a whole genus of plants that people call weeds that are actually wildflowers with merit in the lazy girl's garden. Why not set out a clump of lemon balm and rudbeckia instead of planting some high-maintenance shrubs? A weed is a weed not because of its unsightly appearance. A weed is a weed because it can be sort of a bully in the garden. The Bluto of the backyard, if you will. And this is what makes wildflower weeds even more high maintenance than staking peonies in the rain.
But if you're the type of gardener to periodically pull and cut back, weeds—the pretty ones—can be charming friends. And let's not ignore the opportunities to sound like a real know-it-all with your newfound lexicon of weeds. Your neighbor may not know a daylily from an orchid, but you bet he knows all about nutsedge. In fact, those who don't even have flowers in their gardens all have weeds—it's the only true common bond we all share as people with any sort of greenery outside our door. Even those who exclusively container garden have run-ins with chickweed sprouts. Forget all that talk about hemerocallis this, Echinacea that... you strut your green stuff with dropping some names like "prostrate knotweed," and "persicaria," and people are going to be thinking you read books like this one.
Oh wait, you do. Or should I say, I do. You know those little wild strawberries that creep along by runners in your lovely beds? Those tasteless little nuisances are about as ethically difficult to kill as a ladybug. It is the harmless friend of the botanical world—just the thought of yanking those tiny runners out makes me feel like a serial killer. But honestly, it's like someone took the seeds off of a regular strawberry by the gazillions and glued them on to this little thing that tastes like ice. The gloves are off with those this year; I'm yanking. What is wrong with the French when they speak lovingly of their fraises des bois? Mine have never tasted worthy of Marcel Proust's attention, even cloaked in driveway exhaust and Round-Up from the neighbor's landscaping service.
Let me see.. what page would I find those little berries on? I have a date with a book that is about as sexy as support hose, and that's just fine with me. I might even write a love letter to the editor, Charles T. Bryson, because I bet he thinks support hose are sexy. I wonder how he'll feel about my driveway fraises des bois tartlets? One can only wonder.
