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364 days a year I love them.
Dark green thin arches form a mound some four feet high. From ground level to complete growth takes the better part of spring and early summer. In late summer flowering stalks appear almost overnight, shooting up twelve or fifteen feet depending on the weather.
The grasses form an effective cover for the fence at the back of my yard, which was the goal when I purchased them several years ago. They started out as wee little things in tiny pots. It’s unreal how aggressively they’ve grown.
These are plants whose past season’s growth must be cut back to the ground to leave room for new foliage to sprout. The first year I performed this task with scissors. The next year I used hedge clippers.
The following year they outgrew manual cutting. I had to use electric trimmers, and that was a big fat pain in the ass that dulled the trimmer’s blades and brought forth streams of frustrated profanity from my lips.
So I enlisted the help of my dad and his chain saw. For the past handful of years, I’ve called him in early spring:
“Hey. You ready to help me cut down the Pampas grass?”
“No.”
“Yeah. Me neither. But it’s got to be done.”
“No, it doesn’t have to be done.”
“What are you suggesting, Dad?”
And he tells me his scheme, which involves wicked-strong herbicides guaranteed to kill my precious grasses. Or fire. No matter the procedure suggested, he speaks of destroying the grasses with the same maniacal glee usually reserved for the eradication of terrorists.
Thus far I’ve managed to talk him out of his deadly flaming fantasies.
So on some chilly April morning, we’ll trek out to the plants with the intention of cutting them to the ground. Sounds simple, doesn’t it? What could be easier than cutting down winter-dry grasses with a chain saw?
Ha ha. I laugh at your naivety. Ha ha ha.
You must understand that when Pampas grass dries over the winter, it turns into knives. The fronds, when cut or broken, become swords. The seeds morph into nearly-invisible shards of glass which cling to the skin, digging in more firmly with each touch.
I’ve ended each Pampas grass cutting-down session as bloodied as if I’d been to battle. Even protected by gloves, jeans and long sleeves, the fronds find ways to slice my hands and arms, so reluctant are they to relinquish their hold in my garden.
On that day, I too entertain my father’s fantasies of Pampas Grass genocide. I want them to die. I want to kill them, and if it would be possible for me to inflict as much pain on them in the process as they’ve inflicted on me, so much the better.
But I hold off. I’ve not yet given in to the idea of scorched earth tactics. Not yet.
This year, one thing stays my hand. The fronds at this point in the season are beginning to dry, but they do not yet have the sharpness of spears. My children break them off and fly them about like kites, or clack them together like fighting sticks, or plant them in the ground like flags.
It’s charming.
The middle child loves the “kites,” as she calls them. She has her older sister fetch her a kite which she then flies around the yard. The other day she brought her kite to me with the request that I fly it for her. I waved it above our heads and out drifted hundreds if not thousands of tiny seeds, fluffy and soft as snow.
She looked up at the rain of seeds, her eyes lit up like Christmas morning. She pointed, she laughed, she cavorted.
That one moment will buy the grasses another year of safety from poison or flame.
Griffyn on October 22nd, 2007 
AlwaysCurious on October 22nd, 2007 
badinfluencegirl
Edward on October 22nd, 2007 
Sailor
Jackie Adshead
aag
Rupert
The Omnipotent Poobah Speaks!
Loving Annie
sara on October 22nd, 2007 
D
Marcelle Manhattan
Lori on October 22nd, 2007 
agilitygirl on October 24th, 2007 
