My computer has been at the geek-Doctor and I’ve been unable to update this blog for several days (it was only supposed to take two days to fix the computer problem; it took twelve, but that is another story); I thought of many possible posts in the intervening time; unfortunately, I didn’t write them down and they’ve been washed away in this morning’s rain. I do, however, recall a discussion I had with my Mom on the weekend regarding Scotch broom, which unearthed a memory…
I’ve always liked the robust scent and the striking yellow plumage of Scotch broom, but my mother cannot stand the plant; she finds the smell offensive, likely because, for her, it initiates a nasty allergic reaction. But her reaction to the plant is nothing compared to a person I used to work with at a Salmonid hatchery.
The hatchery was — and still is — several kilometers beyond a gated forest reserve; I had no car at the time and Mildred, a coworker, usually drove me from a bus loop to the hatchery site.
On one particularly delightful summer lunch-break, Mildred decided to take the following day off and another coworker, J., offered to pick me up at the bus loop and drive me the rest of the way to work.
J., like Mildred, was a delightful conversationalist; gregarious, loquacious: a veritable stream of words flowed from his mouth. Like Mildred, he didn’t seem to care if I spoke at all (grunts and nods were perfectly acceptable), which suited me just fine, especially early in the morning (to be completely honest, silence in the morning is my preference, but it wasn’t an option: after all, I was in the position of the thankful passenger and a forced politeness was the least I could offer).
So, the next morning, after we’d driven about a quarter of the winding, deserted roadway to the hatchery, J. slammed on the breaks, swerved off the road onto the dirt shoulder and muttered an array of curses. When the car had come to a complete stop, he forced the transmission into park, yanked the emergency break into place, turned off the car, pulled the keys out of the ignition, pushed open the door, got out, slammed the door, and opened the trunk. I heard and felt him shifting implements in the trunk (I must admit, I was slightly anxious: I hoped he wasn’t grabbing a well-hidden gun. Did he harbour a grudge? Was he mentally unhinged?). The car jerked about as he wrestled behind me. Finally, he extracted what he wanted, slammed the trunk closed and trudged off toward the forest.
He was carrying a pick, a shovel, and an axe. He marched with determination until he reached a large broom plant, dropped the axe and the pick, and began to dig around the plant. It took him over twenty minutes, but he eventually managed to extract the plant— and most, if not all, of its root system — from the ground. I stayed in the car and watched; I was a young man at the time, slightly paranoid I suppose, probably guilty of dipping into too many murder mysteries.
He carried the plant, along with his implements of destruction, back to the car and tossed everything into the trunk (he put the mangled broom plant in a large, dark-green plastic bag), slammed the trunk closed, got back into the car, and off we continued to the hatchery site.
“I hate broom,” was all he offered before continuing on with his regular palaver, as if nothing unusual had occurred. I never rode in his car after that, but whenever I see a car stopped at the side of a roadway I have a quick look in case I get a glimpse of J., still fighting against impossible odds.
It was Captain Walter Grant (1822-1861) who introduced Scotch broom (Cytisus scoparius) to British Columbia (B.C.) when he planted it at Mullchard, his Vancouver Island ‘estate’ (he had planned to live the life of a country squire, also helping to transplant the sport of cricket to the Victoria area). The plant — now considered an invasive weed —spread like wildfire up the coast of Vancouver Island, to the gulf Islands, and across the Juan de Fuca Strait to the B.C. mainland. Its proliferation was further aided by the labours of man: Scotch broom is a fast growing plant with deep roots, and the B.C. Department of Highways made wide-spread use of the plant as a bank stabilizer.
Whether we like it or not, Scotch broom is now a thriving member of the web of life in B.C.
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For more information on Captain Grant:
The cricket roots of Vancouver Island
When he shot what he thought was a wild buffalo, but was actually a cow (scroll down the page to find the section about Captain Grant).
A short biography
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This morning a colleague stated that Buddhism is a negative religion because the Buddha did not accept, or believe in, the individual.
db johnston
almost falling 