Scotch broom

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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Rhythms

It was a gorgeous sunrise.

There were no smokers on the patio, so I took my coffee outside.

Two men lounged at the opposite side of the patio.

One of them was a large Asian, probably in his mid-thirties. He wore a light-grey dress-shirt, a thin black tie, black suit, black boots, and mirrored sunglasses. I decided he was Yakuza.

His companion was about my age, maybe a few years younger. Judging by his faint accent, he was originally from Eastern Europe. He was wearing tan jeans, a pale-yellow polo shirt, and slip-on loafers. No socks. His skin had the orange tinge of a tanning booth user. His hair was thinning and he tried to hide the fact; unfortunately, in the breeze, it accentuated the obvious: he assiduously raked the strands back into position with the fingers of his left hand. He was KGB.

They were having an interesting conversation; but, as they were at the other side of the patio, my eavesdropping was hindered. They were talking about music styles — jazz, classical, and rock — and how that related to the concept of positively charged ‘holes’ , instead of electrons, as a definition of current flow. Then they started discussing the ramifications of a deterministic universe.

Just when the discussion was getting heated, a Harley cruised into the parking lot. The biker was a massive man with tattooed biceps the size of my thighs. His Harley burbled and farted with an impulsive array of base-blasts. Not only couldn’t I hear the conversation over the bike’s blatting, but it was as if the Harley’s entrance was a signal to Yakuza and KGB; they got up, shook hands, and left in opposite directions. It all seemed so spontaneous. Or was it choreographed?

The biker stopped close to where I was sitting; my inner-organs resonated to the rhythm of the engine’s exhaust. I felt an odd anxiety, a compulsion to get up and walk away, but I was enjoying the warmth of the sunshine and forced myself to remain in the seat. Soon, however, the fumes from the Harley made me nauseous, so I stood up and started to walk home.

Within half a block I remembered that I’d wanted to buy something from the store beside the coffee shop. I stopped and turned around, but I couldn’t force myself to retrace my steps.

I walked to the park and sat on a bench. There was a young man sitting on the grass, picking at the nylon strings of his guitar. The breeze blew faint notes to me and I recognized the song; a Pat Metheny melody that often recurs in his music.

I walked over and dropped a toonie into the guitarist’s hat; a pale-grey fedora, which sat upside down beside him. There were a few other coins inside, and an old, wrinkled five dollar bill.

“Thanks, man,” the guitarist said, and continued to play. It was then that I realized he wasn’t playing Metheny; it was a Beatles tune (more precisely, I suppose, a Lennon/McCartney composition): perhaps he’d changed songs while I’d walked over.

I nodded to the guitarist and moved over to sit on a smooth boulder by the water. I could still hear snippets of the guitar, and I could also hear the pleasant, muted music of children playing on the other side of the field. The children’s squeals and laughter ebbed and flowed with the rising and falling of the wind through the leaves of the trees.

The breeze caressed me with the pungence of Scotch broom (Cytisus scoparius); obnoxious to many, but an aroma I love.

The anxiety that had followed me from the coffee shop dissolved.