I make a habit of a daily stroll, walking the grounds here at the manor, to keep tabs on the state of the gardens and construction projects. I inspect the various flower beds, deadhead the plants that need it, fill the bird-feeders, and so on. It keeps me in touch with my earthbound roots. Usually, I do it barefoot, to better feel which portions of the lawns need application of the sprinkler.
Part of this routine is a long-running, most-likely futile battle against a creeping weed in the bed at the Southeast corner of the house. Each day, it sends up new shoots. Each day, I grasp them and gently pull out as much of the root matter as I can. This little beast spreads vegetatively using long underground runners. If allowed to grow unchecked, it will sends up vines which twine around and choke whatever other plants I try to grow there. As a sign of its victory, it pops out small white flowers. The flowers are an insolent finger in the face of the gardener, and will not be tolerated.
These days, the preferred plant in this bed is rhubarb. This was a deliberate choice. Not many species in the plant kingdom have the chops to compete with the Siberian Devil.
So every day, I pull the shoots. Every day, they grow back.
Fundamentally, I am pitting my own will against that of a vegetable. Plants are not strong, but they are very, very persistent. No individual root destroys a wall, but give ivy a decade, and it will tear your brick or stone structure to shreds. The best we can hope to do is to keep our little structure clean and undamaged, while we have the life and breath to do it. Possibly, we can inspire someone to carry on the tradition once we no longer can. Thus, as a species, we hold our own. There is no victory in the long run.
Today, however, animal quickness once again held back the plant menace. The shoots are once again removed.
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