The Burning Bush

Summer gardens are glorious; vibrant flowers, freshly mowed grass, and everything lush and green. There is absolutely nothing negative about the season... except the weeding. Don't misunderstand me; I genuinely enjoy cutting the grass and general maintenance, but weeding? That's simply not my thing. It's tedious, back-breaking work that seems never-ending. For that reason, I'm always searching for new and improved ways to complete this chore as quickly as possible. One day, a few years ago, I found the perfect solution... or so I thought.

During one of my many treks to the local hardware store, I noticed something sitting alone in a corner, almost calling out to me: a weed burner. For those unfamiliar with the device, it's a rod about the size and shape of a walking cane, with a small propane tank attached to the curved end. A turn of the knob, a flick of the switch, and presto, out comes a flame. Then you simply walk along your stone path, and hover over each weed. They quickly wilt, turn brown within a day or two, and disappear within a week, never to return.

This, in my opinion, was the greatest invention since sliced bread. Weeding my walkways became not only a shorter task, but genuinely fun. It was a battle of me against them, and I was winning. I found myself challenging the small green invaders as I conquered them in their tracks, threatening them never to return. And they didn't.

That is, until one day just after we had replaced our deck with a plastic composite one. I was again engaged in my weekend quest of finding new enemies among my stones and destroying them efficiently. Deeply entranced in my mission, I suddenly noticed an odour in the air, similar to that of a campfire. It took a moment to register, and when I turned around, I was stunned by a small evergreen shrub, with massive billows of black smoke rising upward from its centre.

I froze for a second before my quick-witted mind sprang into action. I raced to the corner and grabbed the garden hose, pointing it at the now-blazing bush. I squeezed the nozzle and... nothing. "Turn on the water," I told myself. I ran back to the tap, twisted it quickly, and began dousing the flames, mentally comparing my actions to those of a firefighter, on a much smaller scale, of course.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, the fire was out, but my bush was ruined. I stared at the fiasco and realized that if it had gone another minute, my new plastic deck would have begun to melt or, worse, become a blazing nightmare. However, all was well, and after my trembling stopped, I re-evaluated the weed burner. Would I throw it away? Instinctively, yes. But I pondered, and not unlike falling from a bike or being tossed by a horse, the key is to continue as soon as you can, to master the fear.

I still burn my weeds regularly, but I do it quietly now. What was recently a victorious quest has been diminished to a humbled chore, knowing that my once-triumphant arrogance has been undermined by the strength and retaliation of nature. As I recall the remnants of the charred bush, I can't help but wonder if perhaps Moses had also discovered my invention.