I bought some nice hedge shears last week. It was time. I hadn't trimmed the bushes properly since I borrowed some really nice shears from my neighbor last year. I borrowed them from his son who was happy to share. While I was trimming the bushes, a truck pulled up and dumped off my neighbor. He was then met by an ambulance that whisked him off to the hospital. He'd been training for the Ragnar Relay and stepped in a hole. He tore his ACL. He overcompensated with his other leg and tore that ACL, too. And there I stood with his nice hedge shears, feeling a little like a criminal since I hadn't sought his permission and now he was laying on the ground groaning.
Somehow I felt responsible for his troubles.
So I let my bushes shoot out like an old man's eyebrows until I capitulated and bought my own shears. This is the point of the story where I butcher the bushes. One bush looked particularly sickly. By the time I pulled all the climbing weeds off it, I realized it was totally dead. The green hue it had maintained through the summer could be solely attributed to morning glory.
My 5 year old son got my husband to get the shovel and we went about the task of digging it up. I gouged and used the shovel as a lever, digging under it, pulling, pushing, and cajoling.
"Maybe we should get Dad to help us!"
"No, we can do it (pant)."
Grunt. "Mom! I'm really helping!"
"Yup, buddy, you really are!"
By now I'm sweating and the bush is nearly out. For just a moment, the triumph eclipsed my good senses.
"You're mine now, Bit**!"
"What you said, Mom?"
"I said, 'you're mine now, bush.'"
"Why did you say that? Do you want to keep it?"