Defeat of the Shrub

Spent a good part of yesterday going out on a regular basis to hack at a large dead azalea thing that's as tall as myself, hacking away it's limbs (Arrrr!) and then gradually digging out the root ball (pant, grumble, mutter). Clipped, lopped and chopped off all the roots I could reach, dug and dug and chopped again then soaked the thing with a hose to try to soften it up. The end result looked rather like a meteorite had landed in my yard and inexplicably left a dead shrub in the center of its crater....which then filled with brown goo.

So I'm out there kneeling in the mud poking around in this brown gloppy soup with my loppers, lopping anything I can find by feel and finally got to where the blamed thing would rock back and forth ("schlupp...schluuup...schlupp..."). Stand up, get a good grip on the dead limb-stubs and pull only to be reminded of how bluebells post-blooming invariably turn into bluebell-slime when trod upon, sending me skidding along like a beserk slime-skater hanging onto a wobbly dead shrub. ("Yeeeaaa!") Did I mention this is on a slope?

"Schlooooop....SCHLUP!" At last! At last! The beast is slain! I am Triumphant Gardener!

My daughter, returning from school, comes up the driveway and stops to raise her eyebrows at me. "Shrub!" I offer by way of explanation for my mud-and-green-slimed self. "I conquered it!" I hold up the dripping rootball like the head of some dragon of old.

"Yeah. So I see!" she says and heads into the house with that 'crazy gardener mom at it again' look. My son comes out and says "Wow. How heavy is that thing? Can I carry it?"

No, gardening is not for the meek.