I’ve always been a handweeder, with help from my uncles— Uncle Pitchfork, Uncle Machete and Uncle Mattock.
On a recent stormy Sunday, I and my crew of bad-plant bashers teetered on the weed-smothered slope behind my friend Jet’s fire-incinerated lot at Seminole Springs in rural Agoura. I was trying to remember the exact moment I thought volunteering for weed abatement duty was such a nifty idea.
Wow, I might’ve compared the slope to a patchwork quilt except, barring a few stray pins, m...
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