Shrubbery Trumps

Many years ago I'd purchased some forsythia bushes that I thought would look absolutely fabulous. And they did. I loved those things that grew and grew despite my knack for killing. I even went to the effort of trimming them every spring to make them look all neat and tidy. This may or may not have been a springboard for them to take off and make up for the lack by growing twice their size during the summer.

Sam hated my forsythia. It was not meant to be a love triangle. When we built the house we needed to dig up those prolific bushes and move them out of the way. Sam took a little too much delight in backhoeing them right out of the ground and tossing them rather haphazardly onto a topsoil heap. He was secretly hoping, of course, that they didnt' last the summer.

But they did.

So when we did the landscaping behind the patio last summer I chose two perfect places to plant my prolific friends. Sam dutifully (and rather grudgingly) dug the holes with the backhoe and dropped them unceremoniously into the ground. I patched them over and lovingly patted them into place. And then Sam accidentally backed over one with the 'hoe.

That thing lived with it's roots half pulled out of the ground and continued to thrive. I'm telling you, forsythia are the hosta of the shrub world. There's no killing those things.

So I'm making a brick walkway around this thing and Sam realizes that he'd better fix it or I'll make it a permanent Leaning Shrub of Shame in his honor. In the process of digging it up we find that it grew many little baby forsythia all over the place just for spite. Not only did Sam plant that thing in the upright position with hopes that it lives (which will now surely make it die) but he allowed me to plant those babies in the front lawn.

Forsythia: 3
Sam: 0