Bittersweet End

Our first house had a teeny back yard with maybe six smallish trees in it, so when we moved into our second and current one I was enthralled with the big back yard and the woodland beyond, a mix of pines and maples with the occasional oak and birch. I was pleased to see that we even had a small festoon of bittersweet here and there, so that I would be able to make my own door decorations come autumn. Which, somehow, I never did, and though I noticed that the bittersweet grew and throve beyond all reason, I never did anything about that either.

Last week even Grant remarked on the fact that the bittersweet had gotten entirely above itself, and also above the pine trees it had climbed, and had taken to waving its tentacles about threateningly in the breeze. Whereupon, finally, I had had enough, and, taking our old handsaw and a pair of lopping shears I had bought with just such an occasion in mind, I went out to battle the beast.


Observe the two monster pythons curling up through the undergrowth. The good news was that I could free the pine trees from their devil's snare simply by sawing through these behemoths; the bad news was that I lacked the perseverance to sever the bigger one (in the rear; note to self: get saw sharpened), especially as by this time I was being dive-bombed by mosquito squadrons, and had to settle for girdling it.



It seems to have worked. Note the marked droopage in the second picture. Ordinarily I think of myself as a peaceable person, by no means bloodthirsty (sap-thirsty?), but the sight fills me with evil joy.