No, it’s not rude. Or political.
That used to be the American Box by the steps up to the kitchen door, which has been there since I moved into the house, stubbornly growing through the porch railings and harboring cardinals’ nests two years out of three. Over time it became a hulking mass of pokey foliage that forced you to list to port when you walked out to the vegetable garden and defied the electric clippers. Somehow, every time I trimmed it back, it ended up with a flat-top. It was vegetation, which is good I guess, but it became a real pain in the ass.
This spring, for whatever reason, it just went tits up. Those few sprigs of green in the heap: that’s all that was left.
The Engineer and I knocked out the Box in an hour and a half, with a reciprocating electric saw out of his Santa-like bag of cordless tools. It is extremely fucking hot, sticky and bright out, and we emptied a gallon gym bottle and stood under the “Mist” setting of the garden hose sprayer about half way through. We are badassed. And saturated.
I gave up years ago asking David, my alleged gardener, to deal with things like this. If you say “David, you think you could knock out that dead arbor vitae along the back fence?” he will come back with something like “Well, I’d need to get my power saw over here. That’s awful big. I might need my helper. I guess I could do it. Sometime. Just let me know when you want me to do it.” (Didn’t I just ask?) The conversation would go on for half an hour and he would never name a date OR the price for the job. There are now three dead arbor vitae along the back fence.
Our work is cut out for us, but I think that will have to do for today.