Trimming Your Bushes, Shrubs and Trees
January 15, 2012, By Greg Hoard 0 comments
When we bought our house, the primary attraction was the grounds—three acres of trees and shrubs, a tennis court, basketball courts, gardens, grape harbors and all of it just eight minutes from downtown, where my wife and I worked. It was perfect.
I remember walking the property with the owner and asking him why he wanted to sell. The house was marvelous, built in 1917 with touches no modern home could approach.
He said nothing for a moment, just smiled a bit, walking along showing me where he planted his gardens and piled the firewood for the winter. “My kids are grown and gone,” he said. “I can’t manage this place on my own anymore, just too much work.”
It was the dead of winter. I was young and had no idea what I was getting into. I grew up on a farm, but I had completely forgotten about the regenerative powers of nature.
By late spring, I was faced with a reality I had not anticipated, something out of a bad, low-budget Sci-Fi horror movie: vegetation overtaking my driveway, my home, creeping here, gathering there.
By early summer, I walk out the door and it’s "Little Shop of Horrors." I’m Seymour Krelborn. The honeysuckle is saying, “Feed me. Feed me!” The vegetation is towering, frightening, daunting, crawling closer and closer to the house.
I rush to the local hardware store. The owner of the shop greets me. He knows tools. He does not know "Little Shop of Horrors."
“This is what you need,” he says. “It’s called the Green Machine, gas-powered. Will deal with brush up to three-quarters of an inch.”
“How much?” I said, though I didn’t care. The need was immediate. I imagined Seymour throwing dead bodies into the man-eating plant.
In retrospect, I think the Green Machine was about $250. I threw down the money without hesitation, went home and went to work. I staved off the threat. For two years, the Green Machine served me well, motored through everything. Then, one day it sputtered, coughed and just died; couldn’t revive it no matter what I tried. It was late summer and there was still work to do: box hedges and shrubs.
I pitched the machine in the truck and headed back to the hardware store.
“Hmm,” the owner said. “Don’t know if it can be saved. It’s been discontinued. Don’t know if I can get the parts.”
