Taking A Stand: Digging bushes a constant chore
When I’m laid to rest, I strongly suspect there will be an inscription of my tombstone reading “Here lies Duane Sherrill, a man who never did dig up those bushes.”
If there’s a resounding theme in my life it’s the constant command “to dig up those bushes.” I relish the coming of winter for one singular reason, that being, the demands of me to dig up the bushes tend to decrease for just a while. But, as you can tell by looking out your window this morning, winter is drawing to an end, giving way to bush season.
The request to dig bushes began when I was just a kid. Along with being told to mow the yard, which I had no problems in doing, there was always this magical quest to uproot some form of plant life. It seemed there was always an undesirable bush taking root in our yard and it was my mission to not only cut it down, but to also dig out any remnant of it and remove all memory of it from the face of the Earth.
When I got married and moved into my own home, I soon discovered my relationship with the devil bush was just starting. Without fail, my command come spring from wifely headquarters was to “dig up those bushes around the side of the house.” To this day, I’m still not sure what exact bushes I’m supposed to dig up, all I know is that if I have a spare minute, that’s my mission in life.
To make matters worse, the fact I no longer live with my mother doesn’t preclude me from bush work on her behalf. Just this week I was assaulted by pleas from my mother and aunt to dig bushes for them. In this case, I was instructed to go to another place, dig up the bushes there, and bring the bushes to my aunt’s home.
At first I tried to ignore the request, but my phone began ringing off the hook, with the theme of the conversations always turning to those bushes. It got so that I was having nightmares about bushes, dreaming that I’d dig one up only to see two more grow up behind me.
In hopes of quieting the latest bush attack and the voices in my head, I tried to enlist some friends to help with the latest bush digging. But, of course, everyone was busy despite the fact the pot was sweetened by my aunt, who offered free homemade cookies for anyone who would help. To hear my mother tell it, these cookies must be solid gold since she was throwing around this bribe like it were a king’s ransom.
Well, I spent part of the weekend digging up the bushes rather than enduring an ongoing assault of bush-digging requests. You know how women are, when they want something done they’ll nag you until you drop. I think they take some kind of nagging class to learn this art since I’ve never met a man who could nag like a woman.
OK, granted, I’ve got the cookies of gold waiting for me, but at the same time, I’ve got myself in the middle of bush jealousy. When my wife asked what I did the day of the great bush digging, I made the mistake of telling the truth. Wrong answer.
“You mean you went and dug their bushes after you’ve put off digging my bushes for years,” my wife questioned, re-kindling her drive for me to eradicate the fabled bushes in our yard.
Folks, I’ll just tell you, I hate bushes. Aside from cutting down every living plant on my property, I don’t know what else I can do.
I ought to just pave the whole thing and be done with it. Other than that, there’s no end to the bush saga. Work as hard as you like in your yard, but they’ll always be that new bush to dig up.
(Duane Sherrill is a reporter for the Standard. He can be reached at 473-2191 or by e-mail at [email protected].)