by D. Edward Hughes

Created on: November 19, 2009   Last Updated: December 03, 2009

Sunset was approaching, and my garden had yet to be struck for the first shovel full of dirt. I had considered the prospect of my initial forray into this unique labor of love for a few months. Careful planning on my part had taken the vast majority of my free time away from work, and the routine responsibilities of being a new husband. Each night, meticulous drawings and scribblings were set down; only the most valuable items from each idea were saved from an inevitable toss into the trashcan by my desk. By mid-March I knew exactly what I wanted. My wife was lovely and patient, with a just-so tad of over-indulgence to boot. How did she feel about what I referred to as "my current project"? Her family had planted gardens for generations. Each year they grew rows of prize winning vegetables, as well as an assortment of delicate and wondrous flowers. She was no fool. She said I could do anything that I wanted, as long as she could keep to the essentials of running a comfortable household. Getting into the dirt was simply out of the question for her-and she smiled nicely when she said that, too.

It was now early April. My deadline was at hand. The front porch of the house held the eight bags of peat moss, five bags of potting soil, two bags of lime, along with the necessary hand tools I had purchased. All brand new, in prime condition, just waiting for the master's order and placement in the ground lined off behind the house. Ground that I considered, by now, to be hallowed. There was only one problem. What was I going to do about the yards and yards of kudzu that now occupied the beloved space of property that I so longed to call "my garden"? I had considered this problem for some time now also, but had always shied away from the prospect of having to remove the cursed plant myself. Apparently by hand, at that! The simple thought of all of those twisting tendrils running for who knew how long underground, or how deep, was abhorent to me. Sitting there in the waning light of the evening, I could feel the anxiety from the idea rolling through my stomach, slow and powerful. I did the only right thing. I stood up and decided it would be better to face it on the morrow. And with a full stomach.

That night-after I had devoured the last bite of meat from wherever on the steer it comes from to become known as T-bone- I reviewed my plans once more. Pouring over the nine pages of notes and sketches, my imagination thrilled me on toward greater heights of determination.

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