Telling the Difference Between a Flower and a Weed

So, you want to know how to tell a weed from a flower. Come to think of it, you probably don’t. If you are a gardener, chances are you already know. If you aren’t a gardener, then you probably don’t care. Still, I came across two foolproof ways of telling the difference that I thought were both funny and apropos.

[Are we still allowed to say “fool” proof? Isn’t “fool” a derogatory term? Something that is foolproof is something that is safe even from the mistakes of a fool. I looked up synonyms — surefire and infallible would probably be better terms, unless, of course, I am talking about myself. And I do admit, I can easily be “fooled” by the various things that grow in my garden.]

Digression aside, one of the infallible ways of telling a weed from a plant is to pull up the plant in question. If it pulls up easily, it’s a flower. If it resists, it’s a weed. I can vouch for this bit of not-funny wisdom. There is a weed that grows copiously in my yard — leafy spurge. With roots that resemble large carrots, it cannot be pulled up. It must be dug up, and even then it’s hard to remove. A spurge weedkiller only partly damages the plant while killing all flowers in the vicinity. Oddly, another impossible-to-pull-up weed is a different plant from the same family. Instead of a carrot-like root, it has roots that spread underground while the leafy part grows above ground in a mat. The stems of this particular spurge are so thin that they cannot hold together enough to pull up the root. Luckily, a spurge killer will get rid of it, though again, the problem is that the poison also destroys all nearby vegetation.

The second way of telling if something is a weed is to cut everything down. What grows back will invariably be a weed.

Ironic, isn’t it, that supposedly the best way to tell if something is a flower rather than a weed is to destroy it.

The weeds that grow around here tend to replicate, so after a while, some identification is possible. Even though I can’t get rid of it, I can recognize both the mat-like prostrate spurge and the tall leafy spurge. (There are 2,000 different types of spurge. Yikes! Luckily I only have to deal with two of them.) I can also recognize the yellow wild mustard by its frilly leaves and the purple wild mustard by its horrible sour milk smell. And I know dandelions, of course, as well as a few of its relatives. Then there’s kochia, also known as fireweed and often confused with ragweed, that was brought here from Eurasia as an ornamental plant, but it’s pretty much taking over Colorado. Apparently, it likes our soil and climate (and doesn’t seem to care that the sentiment is not returned). It’s easy enough to recognize and pull up when it’s young, which is necessary because left to itself, it can grow up to seven feet. (The photo accompanying this post shows the kochia that once blocked access to my garage until I managed to dig it all up.) Though there are maybe only a dozen weeds that infect my yard (I got tired of listing them all) they are so ubiquitous, there might as well be thousands of them.

I better stop this — I’m just depressing myself with all this talk of weeds, which is funny since this was supposed to a rather humorous article about telling weeds from flowers. I guess I missed that target!

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Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One

The Weed That’s Eating Colorado

So many of the weeds that are taking over this area were brought to this country on purpose. For example, the tamarisk was brought over from Europe to control erosion, and now it’s considered an unkillable monster that sucks up tremendous amounts of water that could be better used for native plants. Some people still think it was a good bargain because it will grow in salty and alkaline soils that other plants avoid, but then, the tamarisk helped create those dry salty basins in the first place. It’s no wonder it’s on the invasive plants list.

People are more familiar with the problem of kudzu, the plant that ate the south. Kudzu is native to Japan and Southeastern China, and was also brought over to control erosion. The vine grows as much as a foot a day! Yikes. I’d hate to have to deal with that sort of growth. I’m having a hard enough time with my own nemesis, kochia.

Around here the weed is known erroneously as ragweed, though the weed I spend so much time digging up is a completely different plant. It took me a while, but I finally tracked down the name, one I’d never heard of, though I’m not sure why. Kochia might not be eating Colorado, but it is so ubiquitous, it sure seems as if it is consuming the state!

Kochia, also known as fireweed because of its red foliage in the fall, was brought over here from Eurasia in the 1900s as an ornamental garden plant. I suppose it might be pretty as a red shrub, but I’ve never seen it turn red. It mostly dries out in the fall, turns into a tumbleweed, and spreads its seeds however far it roams. I’ve discovered it’s easiest to pull the kochia plants when they are small, though after it rains, even plants as tall as two feet can easily be pulled up. If they are left alone, they can grow as tall as seven feet. And by then, I’d need a machete to chop them down because there is no way I could ever pull up such a weed! Luckily, I’ve managed to stay on top of the growth, though just this morning I found a whole bunch of one- and two-foot weeds hidden away behind bushes and tomato plants.

It is a drought resistant-plant, so anyone around here who doesn’t take care of their yard ends up with a kochia forest. And when it rains, watch out! Those things grow fast, though luckily, not as fast as kudzu.

As much of a problem as kochia is in Colorado, you’d think people would be trying to eradicate it, but instead, some farmers in the Southwest grow it for forage. Makes sense, actually, since it is drought resistant and its feed value is just slightly less than alfalfa. But I don’t need the forage. Nor do I look forward to all the seeds from my neighbor’s kochia-infested yard finding a home on my property. At least I have a fence, so any tumbleweeds will have to find another resting place.

I don’t suppose it really matters what the name of this weed is — it is what it is, and a name doesn’t change anything — but with a name I can at least find out what I am dealing with.

And what I am dealing with is a rapidly spreading, drought-resistant invasive plant that really isn’t very pretty.

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Pat Bertram is the author of intriguing fiction and insightful works of grief.