Feets Don’t Fail Me Now

A lot of people don’t like English ivy.

A lot of times these people have been my landlord. Or landlady. Who will bellow: “It will tear the house down!”

At which time they commence to put on the Hitler moustache, and start goose-stepping furiously around the property, decreeing that no English ivy vill they permit mein to das grow.

Well . . . sure, ivy’ll tear a house down.

But there’s no malice in it. That’s just the way they be.

Now, finally, at long last, here in the Manor, I am Free. For this here rental agreement says that I am “solely responsible” for all “landscaping.”

And the property-manager ladies have explicitly said “you can grow whatever you want.”

Meanwhile, they will pay for all the water.

BWAHAHAHAHA!!!

There is English ivy here—a lot of it—and I fully intend to permit it to get completely out of control.

I am Free; so is they. I shall not allow these ivy people to actually rip the walls off, but close to that: okay.

This ivy is absolutely beautiful, and pulses with pure life-force.

It’s just rained and rained and rained here all late winter, early spring, which has kept everybody else all sullen and underground, but the ivy has sent out these pure raw youngblood lime-green shoots, that are avidly crawling all over all and everywhere.

It’s alive: therefore, so I am.

I might not appreciate it so, if I had smilax here, but I don’t; smilax was my pal, for many a year, ringing green and clear and lovely, every February, when everybody else was all still head under the hoodie.

But smilax is a couple abodes behind, and now I hear you can’t even buy it in California anymore. Supposedly it’s a “weed.”

Yeah. Right. Like it’s a “weed,” worse than “politics.”

Anyway, English ivy has like these most marvelous feet. That’s how it grabs hold of things, and causes landlords and landladies to screech that it’s a menace, about ripping houses down.

In the photo above, hopefully, you can see its little wee feet, in nascence, before they’ve grabbed hold of things.

Once they do, of course, the feets get all dry and brittle and clingy . . . like anybody or anything else that grabs too tight ahold of things.

Anyway, it’s a gas, right now, watching this sweet yearning alleged menace climbing up over my front-porch wall. At any time, I can trim it back. But not yet. Not yet.

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2 Responses to “Feets Don’t Fail Me Now”


  1. 1 Elva April 8, 2012 at 7:36 am

    Maybe you grew up with the beautiful ivy in your Mother’s yard. Her ivy
    has really taken over and she is unable to keep it under control. I am sure she stills love the beautiful new green leaves.


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