The trick to hand-weeding a fifteen-foot stretch of overgrowth between the raised beds of your garden is to keep your head down and deal just with what’s in front of you. The catmint, quack grass, edible and plentiful plantain and purslane will all bend to your will if you don’t cast your eyes down the long expanse of All That Is Still Left To Pull. Once that happens, the siren call of a cool kitchen and iced tea is stronger that the weeds’ roots themselves. Ye be warned, my friends.

It also helps not to face the sun or expect the cats to offer any assistance. They’ll pounce and gambol about, chasing the seeded end of that clump of tenacious annual bluegrass that missed the garden cart when you tossed it over your shoulder, but not even try to put it in a tidy pile with all the other near misses when they’re done playing with it. They’re cute and absolutely the opposite of useful to your gardening ambitions (enjoy them anyway).

I remember a summer when my dear friend Rhonda came to visit. I was sick and she offered to hand-weed the old potato patch to help me keep up on my list of outdoor chores. Patrick was well away at Sundance and not expected home for about two weeks. Rhonda confessed to thoroughly enjoying pulling weeds and I stayed out of her way. She did a marvelous job and then moved onto cleaning the chicken coop while I napped. I remember the joy on her face and have carried that image into each gardening project ever since. She’s welcome here anytime.

There was another summer when my niece Rebecca took on the entire 20 x 40’ rectangular tangle of weediness on her hands and knees, looking for the onions and chard patiently hiding beneath a shaggy carpet of nutsedge, bindweed and Canada thistle that you just don’t want to approach with your bare hands. Her sunblock must have given out about an hour into the endeavor; she’s fair-skinned and a trooper but looked like a blond-headed strawberry by lunchtime. I gave her the afternoon off and a full day’s pay while the burdock kept reaching for the sky. That’s what burdock does.

By now, some of you may be wondering if we know what a weed whip is or how to use one. The answer is “yes” to both, but they’re finicky gas-powered things and not as reliable as my own two hands. Plus, you can’t hear the mockingbirds’ encouragement from the shagbark hickories on the ridge to the west of the garden’s edge with all that whirring and buzzing going on just inches from your bare ankles. Most years, we don’t let things get so out of control as to need such equipment to tame the garden wilderness. On those occasions, Patrick will yank the pull-start cord for all it’s worth, felling nettles and pokeweed like a logger. I follow him around with a rake and a grateful smile, a firm resolve to do better in future.

But no matter how you slice them, weeds will return, laughing and pointing at our folly with their ever-uncurling fingers, giving us constant employment as gardeners and path-tenders well past the season’s harvest. I show up each week like a devout church-goer, on my knees, head bowed to purpose and inching my way toward tomato salvation.

Can I get an “Amen”, people?