Slice of Life: Day 2: The Bulbs are Back in Town

Those nasty little varmints (a.k.a. wild onions) are back. Much to my red-faced annoyance. How is this possible? I dug a hundred holes in my yard, making it look like a poor man’s golf course. Or live whack-a-mole – that could be fun. I digress. 

Last year when their scent invaded my nostrils, ruining my moment when I stepped back, hands on hip, and looked around the landscape and appreciated the craved after of the great dynamic duo, before and after. I always liked doing this. I used to weed-whack the tall weeds on the far side of my grandpa’s fence. Each time I past a post, I’d look at what I had done so far. Even now, I’ll take a before and after picture of a deck before I stain it. It’s poetic.

 

But not when you smell onions. Why onions? Why can’t there be a wild popcorn weed? Seriously. 

 

Well, to remedy the situation – only to blog about it later – I reached into the fertile soil of Northern Virginia and grabbed those suckers by the bulbs. Sometimes it’s what you have to do.

 

Other than replacing holes as if a polo tournament used my lawn, problem solved. 

 

You would think. 

 

After all, no bulbs, no growth.

 

Ehhhh! Wrong. (That was a buzzer sound, btw.)

 

A couple of months ago, I received several Amazon gift cards. One of the many things I purchased -not counting the sweater that never arrived – was a weed torch. That’s right, a torch for weeds. If grabbin’ ‘em by the bulbs wasn’t going to work, I was going to torch those suckers. Think exploding Gremlin in the microwave lawn and garden style. Okay, that is pushing it a bit.

 

Contrary to yesterday’s blog, maybe I haven’t grown up. As a young teen, I had a slight fetish with fire. I’d sit inside the old cabin down in the meadow and roast flies over a candle flame. I can still hear their crackling bodies like little miniature fireworks. Well, playing with fire has returned. I find this interesting since I fear my house going up in flames at any moment. Therapy? I think it’d be wise.

 

Whether or not I was acting my shoe size, I stopped at Lowes for some propane tanks – little mini ones perfect for my torch. Walking around the yard, I fired that bad boy up and scorched some weeds our mild winter never destroyed. Then came the time for the wild onions. I can see the movie poster now. Me and my torch looking all Schwarzenegger or Stallone-like – whichever 80s action hero hurled flames at their enemy. Maybe it was Bruce or Jean Claude. As long as it’s not Seagal.

 

I saw them from a distance, their sprouting green hair and their evil bulbs in their dark underlayer. It was time to torch. I wish this story had a better ending…or a ending. Sure, I fried their sprouty scalps, but the intense foul odor of flame-tipped wild onions fried my nose hairs. I have to hand it to them; I never saw it coming. This isn’t over. I’ll be back.

-rg