Cursed Tongue: Revenge of the Cursed Agave

Posted by CursedTongue on November 28, 2006

When we had the dirt patch in front of our house converted to a rock garden, we hired a landscaper. Not because we had money we didn’t know what to do with, but because after reading about irrigation system installation, it was painfully obvious that we had no idea what we were doing.

I thought it was a little odd when the landscaper included the agaves on one of the drip lines, but he was a professional landscaper, and I’d had more experience at killing plants than actually growing them. (I was so bad, that at one point my Dad called me the Dr. Mengele of vegetation. I admit there was some plant experimentation, but I swear there was no torture – except for that one poinsettia, and that potted shrub had it coming.) So I decided to trust that the professional I hired knew what he was doing.

A couple of weeks into a searing Arizona summer and the other succulent plants on the irrigation line with the agaves began to wilt. So I reprogrammed the irrigation timer to deliver more water and the thriving agaves began growing baby agaves. The searing 105-degree heat made it easy to convince myself that baby agave removal wasn’t that important. What difference would it make if I removed two little offshoots now or five that would have grown in anyway, when it was more climatically convenient for me?

When the highs cooled down to the low 90’s, I knew that I should do more to the front yard than spray weeds with vinegar and run back inside for a lemonade brake. The agaves looked lush and full, almost like a regular deciduous shrub. But I was fairly certain that there was a good chance the bonus agaves I was growing would eventually choke the parent.

Armed with leather work-gloves, a wooden chopstick and a trowel, I began my attack. (In case you were wondering the chopstick was for loosening soil around the roots so I could pull them with what was hopefully minimal damage to the parent.)

While not the most dangerous of desert fauna, the pointy tip of the agave leaf is quite sharp. In fact, Native Americans used the agave leaf as a needle and thread. Okay, I could be making that up. But it sounds plausible, because the spines at the end of leaves really are that sharp.

I pushed the leaves of the parent plant back with one hand and wrapped my other hand around the base of the first baby agave, and the thick leaves began to tear. I wiggled the small agave, and yanked, ripping off all of the leaves, exposing the slippery white cylindrical base of the plant. (I could almost hear the plant equivalent of, “That dingo ate my baby!” as I did so.)

I had to dig the remaining root up. After mutilating and digging out my second agave offshoot, I decided I was going to have to pull the remaining babies with both hands. The parent plant seemed to like this better, as it could exact revenge for its stolen children.

I filled a five-gallon bucket twice with my bumper crop of agaves. Which made me think I should set up a blanket on the corner and sell them for a nickel.

By the end of the hour-long ordeal, I earned an armful of tiny red marks, some of which–I learned later–were mosquito bites. There was a wicked abrasion on the soft underbelly of the most offensive finger on my left hand, and various nicks on my hands, despite the use of leather gloves. Obviously, I can’t drive anywhere while the middle finger on my dominant hand is out of commission. And that evening I developed a sore ankle and limp. I don’t know when or how I twisted it, exactly, but I’m certain it was the agave’s fault.

My prescription for excruciating gardening pain, a twisted ankle and minor bleeding? An Ace bandage and two shots of tequila.

- Sarah Letnes

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Tags: humor, landscaping, plants

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