A sort of writing on top of @owasco's post (here it is: Oh, The Horror!!! ). Written with the greatest respect for all people (like Owasco, @steevc, @tezmel and @carolkean) who guides plants and make life better for all of us.
Oh! I love little, blue flowers. Even the garden infesting all too free growing periwinkle, whose name makes me think of useless men. My wife has this earthbound connection to that old farming culture, so I let her do the killing and weeding when she once in a while has rented some land in the outskirts of the city.
But I love weed and disorderliness. From the age of seven I lived next to a forest - it started right where the garden ended. I was unconsciously gloating when wood garlic and blackberry invaded the civilised efforts of my parents. Especially I loved the dangerous blackberry! Thorny mayhem that left us bloodied when we were playing. Seldom the berries were sweet, one was bitter, one was sour, and many of them had a strange, bland combination of it all, only coming together in jam. The beech trees, four time or more the height of our single family home, the uncontrollable hazelnut scrub. HAHA! I loved the frogs and ants that invaded the houses. Once my brother and I removed all the stones from my grandmother's fire pit to uncover the mysteries of ant life... a meticulous gardener and a Leninist - she almost killed us. I loved those hippie gardens of my childhood where you could get lost in the grass - were the family goat suddenly jumped out of nowhere, scared of our loud games - where you could see snails mate.
The polite garden owners call such hippie gardens, natural ground in Denmark, with a restrained neutral expression. But I know that they disapprove.
Still I have some sort of understanding - I know that civilisation is just something I enjoy and am given. I cannot earn money, tidy up things or do gardening. I am a sailor, a cave painter and a tramp.
A periwinkle.
Luckily my wife loves me... and has this earthbound connection to that old farming culture.
