“So what do you want me to do with these weeds?” asked my husband, Leo.
“They are not weeds!” I replied indignantly. “They are Virginia creepers a friend gave me. I want them to provide shade along the south side of the carport.”
“Humph! As if that’s ever going to happen.”
“Not as long as they sit in this pail of water.”
“So I suppose you want me to dig a place for them.”
“Well, that’s the idea.”
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Grumping along, he shuffled to the shed for his spade, mumbling something about stupid weeds.
When he was upset, he always worked twice as fast as usual. The soil was fairly flying along the south side of the carport—all 18 feet of it. It was time to do the planting.
One by one, I pressed the roots of the Virginia creepers into the soil. Within a few hours they exhibited their sorrow at being rejected by their previous owner. I promised I’d make amends. I watered them profusely and watched them cheer up.
They settled into their new surroundings surprisingly fast. New leaves appeared daily.
The problem was that the Virginia creepers we planted didn’t know the meaning of “creep.” The minute they sprang through the soil they leaped. They jumped. They skipped. They zigged. They zagged.
Not once did they cling or climb or trail or twine. Their shoots appeared in places hitherto avoided by ordinary plants. Every crack in the concrete driveway sported a Virginia creeper. They even threatened to drive out the quack grass from the nearby lawn.
Although flourishing horizontally, they were seemingly terrified of heights, huddling together on the ground, their tendrils clutching each other for dear life.
“So what can we make for them to climb on?” I asked.
“You mean they need support?”
“Of course! They are vines, remember? Virginia creepers, to be exact.”
We drove to the lumber yard in sullen silence.
All the trellises were beyond our budget, especially for “stupid weeds.” Seeing my crestfallen reaction, Leo softened a bit.
“What if we bought some of these thin slats and I nailed them horizontally between the carport pillars?”
I was glad he deemed it only a “temporary” fix because nailing those slats to the pillars was not his finest attempt at carpentry. I could tell he had no faith in the Virginia creepers, while I could hardly wait for them to camouflage the crooked slats.
We debated how to secure the vines in place.
“Let’s tie them to the slats,” I suggested. For the next few minutes that idea was given weighty consideration. I dismissed twist ties and twine as being too weak to support such a mass of potential foliage as I envisioned.
The neighbour happened along just then and, sizing up our dilemma, she proffered a pair of old pantyhose.
“Here, take these, cut them crosswise and use them to tie the vines to the slats. They have just enough give to accommodate the growth. Training vines is like raising kids. Teach them the way they ought to go and when they are old, they will not depart from it.”
And they haven’t.
For 40 years, those Virginia creepers have formed a lush wall of shade along the south side of the carport. Generations of birds have nested among the branches. Tardy robins on their way south gorge on the berries. Our car is protected from the hot summer sun.
Stupid weeds, indeed!
And somewhere in the depths of the foliage are the slats that were supposed to be temporary and the neighbour’s pantyhose, still holding up after all these decades.
