When we were growing up, my mother would frequently complain about my father’s love of pruning and culling of garden plants. Not like she could talk – her hobby was propagating plants and then letting them languish in plastic pots until they died. She created them, because she could, but did not nurture them.
But when dad took to a plant, he did with gusto and it appears I have inherited that particular gene from him.
Observe:
I only wish I’d taken a photo of what this beast looked like before I took the electric trimmers to it. Originally this was a Hardenbergia Violacea “Happy Wanderer”; but then a second vine, a weed, took over. With a sickly, ugly yellow and purple flower, it reminded me somewhat of a Triffid. Once I began pruning I discovered there was virtually nothing left of the first vine. It was all the dead, spindly wood you see in the above picture, and the green is the weed which had grown over the top. The root system was so thick at the base that Adam had to take a mattock to it, but even now there’s still a stump to be fully removed.
So, in sum: gardening. I hate it. Still.
