Butt

Gardeners are - let's face it - control freaks.  Who else would
willingly spend his leisure hours wresting weeds out of the ground,
blithely making life or death decisions about living beings, moving
earth from here to there, changing the course of waterways?  The
more one thinks about it, the odder it seems; this compulsion to
remake a little corner of the planet according to some plan or vision.
-   Abby Adams, What is a Garden Anyway

If we are to take Ms. Adams' word for truth, I'm not much of a gardener. The proof lies in the northwest corner of my lot. Some of the weeds there are taller than I and have the propensity of prolific procreation. Somehow, that is the part of the garden that receives the least amount of attention, likely because it is the one farthest from view and the area where I am least likely to pass by. But this is September, the month of new beginnings. And so it was that I stepped into the garden with renewed vigor and determination to regain control of said rampaging rough patch before the snow flies. I have little doubt my plan would have succeeded had it not been for a particularly menacing bramble root. No ordinary root this, it taunted me by allowing one end to be effortlessly extracted from the earth. It was soon apparent that I would have less luck with the business end of the bramble, and so I did what any self-respecting weed whacker would do - I tossed my head back with a demonic laugh that underscored my desire to kill the pesky plant once and for all and emphasized the point by putting my back into the next lethal tug. That's when I heard an odd noise. Faint though it was, there was little doubt the sound emanated from my back rather than from the ground. No doubt the rogue root got the last laugh as sciatica took hold. That was a week ago. Since then, I've popped more than a few Robaxacet tablets and sought comfort in the coils of Momzy's electric heating pad. While I can still feel the odd twinge when I think of bending or shifting from a sit/stand position, the worst of it seems to be, well, behind me. Note to self: judiciously prune roots in future. And use a hoe rather than subjecting my rapidly aging back to further abuse. And always, always, bend the knees.