A Quiet Morning - or not - in Rhode Island

Garlic mustard is an invasive plant, and it is best to root it out. In its defense, in early spring it puts forth a cluster of delicate blossoms, and its edible leaves can be crushed into pesto. 

Similarly, the multi-flora rose is a murderous siren as the vine entwines trees and shrubs in a choking embrace. But, it emits a perfume so heavenly that I still my pen, sit back, close my eyes, and breathe deep. 

For a few moments, I remain so, enjoying quiet interrupted only by the chatter of a chipping sparrow and the distant chirp of a robin. That peace is short-lived however, for we humans are an invasive species ourselves, and once the growing season begins, we are loud.

So loud. On this day in late June, the landscapers are out in force, heavily armed to control and contain humans' preferred non-native: grass.

Across the way, a truck towing a trailer bearing a commercial mower parks on a swath of grass that borders the road. It is not the lawn to be mowed as it turns out, but that of a neighbor. That neighbor is not pleased to see the truck and trailer on her grass. She storms from the house shrieking her fury at a burly worker in a neon-yellow tee-shirt. “Get your truck off my lawn!” She howls. I reflect that the town owns land 25’ from the center of the road, but do not wade into the discussion across the street with that tidbit.  

The burly man had already started his mower and does not move his truck. Meanwhile, his associate has fired up a gas-powered leaf blower which roars its disdain of the petals and leaves that have had the temerity to besmirch the green of the grass. Neither man turns off the machines to better hear or address the neighbor’s concerns. Instead, the burly man bellows that he’d move the truck once he finished mowing the roadside strip, thank you very much. 

The woman, hoarse, by now, I have to think, marches to her house and re-emerges with her phone. She stomps to the front of the truck and takes a picture then turns and shoots the burly man a major stink eye. A stink eye that says, “Move the truck, or I’ll call the police.” In truth, I’m surprised she hasn’t done so given the ferocity of her ire. 

Once the strip of lawn is the required ½ inch shorter, the burly guy moves the truck to the strip he has just mowed. He then takes his own picture of his prior parking spot and yells to the leaf blower, “That’s for my protection.” Apparently, he, too, thinks the police might pull up.   

At that point, there is a final exchange between the homeowner and burly guy about which of them had been more rude. 

“You were rude to me!” 

“Well, you were rude FIRST!”

“No! You were!”

Sigh. Grown-ups.  

The lightest of breezes cools my face and sets the pink petunias Dave planted yesterday to bobbing. During a pause in the action across the street, I hear a cardinal call from the wetlands. An airplane whines overhead, and a truck rumbles past drowning out the bird’s call. Nature’s gentle songs and creatures cannot compete with humanity’s invasion.