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The "Oh Shit" Moment
It happens to the best of us.
Digging along this evening, waging war against an unruly stand of hollyhocks attempting to consume with fervor my west perennial bed, I had an "oh shit" moment. No, not some bowel moving anxiety attack. Rather the kind of "oh shit" moment when you realize that amid the backfill of the hole you're digging lies perlite, evidence of a past planting foray.
Yep, I'd done it. I'd dug something up. What? No clue. Its pieces, torn and forlorn were scattered in the pile of earth I'd shoveled out in preparation for planting a new Tradescantia subaspera from fellow blogger Ben Futa. I couldn't find a tag, which further aggravated me. If I was going to outright kill something accidentally, at least I should know what it was. You know, it's easier to pay respects and all when you can insert a name into your garden prayers at night. "Oh dearly departed Schizachyrium, compost well." I stamped my feet a little, threw a micro-tantrum, and berated myself for my idiocy. "If only you wouldn't cram all this crap in here," I lobbed inward at my psyche.
But I figure new gardens come at the expense of old ones. Clearly I don't even know what I dug out so why be overly remorseful? My new traddy looks good, I'm minus a few hollyhocks, and life grows anew. Oy vey!
With all candor I must admit though that nothing beats the trepidation of the kill, even if purely unintentional. Now if I'd only think a little farther ahead and plan an "oh shit" moment. I've surely got a few more hollyhocks to lay to rest.