The Hellstrip pt.2 — J. LIU THE INSTRUMENT

On the eve of the “Reformation” of our garden, I let my subconscious take over, barreling me into arguments with B, then my mother, and then my aunt over the plans I had anticipated to implement the next day. In retrospect, I see it was all an attempt to get someone to give me a good reason not to go through with the whole thing.

- But that never happened.

I had a grand scheme to turn my run of the mill landscape into something wondrous- a haven for wildlife and weary eyes alike. But the unforeseen hiccups (i.e. a basement leak on the side of the house) made it so that planting in the backyard would all be in vain, if in order to deal with these problems, we would need to dig up areas and regrade the soil around the house. These conditions made it so that the only place I could begin this great conversion was in the area I refer to as, The Hellstrip, a 2 foot by 20 foot plus strip of dirt flanking the path leading to the front door- an area which is highly visible to all passerby's, and therefore highly embarrassing if the results were all to go south.

Beyond having never designed and planted a space more than 2 square feet or so until this project, the first step of this revolution required a great purge- I would first have to remove all the preexisting shrubs that have inhabited the land so innocently, yet insidiously for the past two decades before I could implement any new planting scheme. The issue of sentimental attachments aside, I have never in my life removed a single shrub before, let alone eight of them.

It makes slightly more sense to say then, that the two nights leading up to the eve of my campaign launch I had managed about five or so hours of sleep total. As soon as I’d lay down, my heart, as if on cue, would begin to pound- and pound with such urgency, that it made it seem as if these chambers of my being were bent on making it clear to me that despite them “working” for me, ultimately, I was under their hold, that I was helpless to their whims, and all I could do was ride it out until my heart decided it had had enough. I came to this understanding after six hours of lying awake on the first night, and thereafter passed the rest of that night, and the night after that in total submission- the same way, I was certain, I was to pass the night that was still to come.

*

When the alarm went off the next morning, my soul shot up as my body continued to lie in bed. It paced around the room scanning and marking the places my body would need to visit in order to retrieve the pieces comprising my habit for the day: this drawer, that drawer, this closet, that shelf; and after the plan was mapped out, the energy that had kept me up the past three nights re-entered my body and sat me up. I decided that despite whatever odd effects of irritability and mild hallucinations I was to have from this restlessness, I would harness this strange energy bestowed to me to my advantage for the day’s work ahead.

After donning my gear and assembling together what weapons I guessed I would need, I stepped outside. The sky was grey, but the chill was mild- the kind that encouraged the body to move so as to overcome the cold wishing to settle into the bones, lest one turn stiff. But before I could begin, I first had to make my peace with what I was about to do. I squatted down low next to the first barberry. I looked it straight in its fiery plum leaves and asked it if it was ok- the massacre I was about to commit.

I received no reply.

I sat down on the walkway my body turned towards the street, and my face turned towards the shrub, as if I were sitting next to a lover I couldn’t quite decide as to whether or not still had a place in my life. My eyes traced the branches. Decades have passed to bring you here in this very form you inhabit. Mere minutes will take you away. - Dare I be the one to do so?

Still, no reply.

I scanned the entire row of shrubs for a sign but found none. The world was silent. I wondered if perhaps the answer was not to be sought here. Perhaps the answer was something to be found elsewhere, perhaps in the future. My eyes zeroed in on one limb and I realized that the decision was ultimately, one I had to make. I picked up my loppers- the dear loppers which have seen me through so many dead branches and diseased shrubs- and made my first cut towards a future I had hoped would be better than what was promised here. I cut and cut and cut and cut, until what was left looked like a bad haircut- a handful of bare stubs protruding from the leafless head of the shrub.

There was no breeze to be had that day, but when I took a deep breath in, I felt a rush of fresh air moving through. Space, it confirmed, had been made; new possibilities had been borne.

The stump was to be excavated next. This, I felt, was an even more momentous step, as in the world of a gardener, the most critical spaces lie in those places which are unseen. I began to use a combination of digging away soil, cutting at roots, and maneuvering my trusty long handled shovel- my shovel which has seen me through countless sizable boulders lying asleep in prime root real estate all over my yard- to try to pry the stump out without disturbing the daffodils, which were blooming unfazed by all the turmoil ensuing beside them.

If you have never tried to pull out the roots of a barberry, you will discover quickly that they are incredibly efficient at anchoring themselves into the ground. The main roots are bulbous and thick; and they send out thinner roots, perhaps a half-inch wide, which are long and dense- a consistency which I imagined would make great materials for strangulation. What’s more deterring, is that when you cut open any of these roots, regardless of thickness, they reveal a bright screaming yellow flesh, reminiscent of curry powder, but more vibrant. One really does wonder, simply due to the unexpected color, the potential of pain one might be inflicting on a plant that might in fact be a creature. But this was no time to dwell. The incessant pounding of the occult chambers pushed me on.

I was in a fervor of cutting, hacking and yanking, when suddenly a neighbor of mine strolling along the street with her two teenage granddaughters stopped in front of my house and cried out to me, “Your flowers are beautiful!”

My head shot up from my task and I cried “Oh!” A few moments passed as I recovered from the shock and quickly added, “Thank you!”, realizing I still had to maintain some semblance of possessing social etiquette.

She was referring to the swathes of daffodils, which were just now coming into their prime. I planted them last fall, and they were, to that date, the most ambitious planting I had yet undertaken. I watched her eyes as they travelled from the groupings of nodding blooms to the pile of carnage growing by my feet. After a moment she said, “I never get any flowers. I plant them every year, and every year they don’t come up. What’s the secret?”

I began to ask her a series of questions: when she planted them, where she planted them, whether or not she added any amendments to the soil, etc. etc, but her eyes began to glaze over even before I got through the first question. I’ll never know what she heard, but in my fevered imagination she heard, “Well in order for you to get blooms like these, you need to be hacking violently away at everything that already exists on the lawn. Make sure to work yourself up to the point of huffing and puffing, or else the flowers won’t bloom too well”, and then decided promptly that gardening perhaps was not for her as an activity to engage in, but certainly was in terms of spectatorship. Her granddaughters noticed her silence and began repeating some of my questions to her, worrying she was being rude. But she remained in what seemed to be her own world, and after a few moments shrugged her shoulders and smiled with what appeared to be a slight hint of embarrassment. “I don’t know”, she said. “Your garden is beautiful. Thank you. Have a nice day!” and continued on with her walk. Her granddaughters lingered behind for a brief moment, considering amongst themselves the oddness of their grandmother. But no more than a breath later, grew indifferent and followed her up the street.

I was stunned. Up until now, the only compliments I've received on the garden have been from people I’ve known. And unfortunately, most of these compliments, I fear, have been coaxed out of them by none other than yours truly. But there she was- the first admirer. I felt as if I had attracted some exotic pollinator, and had no idea as to how I managed to do it. Regardless, it began to rouse the idea in me that perhaps then, amidst the turmoil and chaos of my struggles both desiring yet fearing change, I might have been doing something right.

Overcome with a renewed sense of purpose, I began tugging and hacking away with even more tenacity. The sight, I suspect, must have resembled a caricature of a human in a losing battle with their already domesticated natural surroundings, but the act was filled with laser intention serving the highest aesthetic order. I located the outermost roots with my hori-hori knife, and cut away at them from all sides of the shrub with my pruning shears until the last, thickest root of all revealed itself. It lay right at the center of the shrub, and I swear I could hear the lifeforce streaming through the artery throbbing. No going back now. I inserted my loppers under the the stump into the dirt where I calculated the root was, for I had no way to get a good view of the root while simultaneously manning the loppers. When I estimated I was in the right position, I knew all I was relying on was my blind faith. I began to close the loppers. At first, nothing. But as the handles closed further, I was suddenly met with resistance. I took a breath in and exhaled, forcing the handles to a close. - SNAP- . The loppers, closed, now slid out with ease. I set them to the side. I stood up, and wrapped my hands around the bare, stubby barberry and tugged. The stump though weighty, lifted out of the ground with ease. I marveled at its heft. In my hands, wrapped in the form of roots and wood was the culmination of twenty years of growth. I carried it by its stubs down the walkway towards the street, as if it were a procession, and it was my duty to display the captured head of an evil tyrant. I brought it over to the side of my yard and tossed the thing into the corner I designated all my subsequent carnage would collect. It landed with a satisfying thud and was at once the greatest, yet quietest signal of victory I had ever known.

what have i done, or, hat falls off a barberry killer’s head

The rest of the shrubs came out with much more ease, in both a physical and emotional sense. I did, however, end up sparing an euonymus “Emerald n’ Gold”, because the acid green just paired too nicely with the fluorescent orange of the daffodil “Barrett Browning”. When I was finished with my purge, it was too dark to see the results of my work. All I could feel was the breeze moving through- the space that was made. Later that evening, I was granted the first restful sleep I’d had in three nights.

*

In the subsequent days, I’d take my time to fill the depressions left over from the excavation with topsoil and manure, taking many moments to stop and admire the freshness of the dark soil, the clean palette that was being made.

I took equal time to languish in nestling the plugs of new plants into the ground, cherishing an act that, with good hopes, would make up for the massacre that had needed to come first. The next day, a storm rolled over to settle them in. Despite it having been only one day of their lives in their new homes, when I surveyed them after the rain subsided, I could swear they all seemed larger- leaves slightly bigger, more open, more perky.

I still don’t know if what I’ve done was right- both morally or aesthetically. I don’t think I will know at least for another year or two. But the dream of a front yard filled with flowers blooming year round, birds and insects buzzing about- the possibility that this can be a place which serves as even a fraction of a second of a reminder of the wonder that can and does indeed exist in the world, for the time being, justifies it all.