I won’t deny that I hate weeds. Sometimes I think I’m obsessed with them. As I stroll on any of the city’s sidewalks, I can’t help myself. I see a stray blade of grass or a sprig of dandelion and I find myself bending over to pluck it, knowing full well it will be back as early as tomorrow.

I don’t know whether my parents would have gone that far, but I do know their garden and flower beds were always weed free. Even the bindweed or clover that sprouted from the composted cow manure Dad brought from a local farm were not given a fighting chance in his gardens.