Bill's Rebuttal...The Root Cause

Last week’s post, “The Magic of Wisteria,” sought to infuse some romantic qualities into the pernicious vine. It did for some, failed for others. If you didn’t read it, today’s post might not make a lot of sense. And if you did, the same might be true.

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My friend, Bill, responded to the amorous epistle with emotional fervor, voicing his contrary opinion and vilifying this nefarious predator. His stark detail offers a shocking view of the underbelly of wisteria. I feel obliged to air his ghastly experiences with you.

So here, verbatim, are Bill’s lamentations on wisteria:

“Our experience with wisteria is diametrically opposed to yours.”

“Fear and revulsion? Yes, these are the emotions we experience when we hear the word ‘wisteria.’”

“You see, the wisteria we know is an invasion ‘kudzu’ type vine that noses its way into every nook and cranny on the NC mountain property, strangling the trees, mutilating the shrubs snarling the Mountain Laurel, strangling the Rhododendron, choking out the grass, pushing tendrils into the basement and walls, claiming all within its reach, and all without regret. While we were away, wisteria has decided it will be our manager, overseer, dominant caretaker and eventually take complete and undeniable control of all within reach which is everything.”

“When we arrived our mountain home in May, there is no sign of the ‘fragrant ‘dangling lavender’ vine of immense beauty and fragrance.’ What we see is the feared wisteria invader, the aggressive choking snarl that has taken over our place. All we can foresee is work, work, work to as we attempt to retake the territory claimed by wisteria while we were not looking.”

“We man the clippers and the ‘Crossbow,’ We must catch up, so we launch into a cut and poison frenzy, pulling the flood of new seed pods and burning them, poisoning as much as we can reach until exhaustion claims us. Even then, the enemy is still at large waiting to take over before we rest. We scrape aside a little dirt to plant a spring flower, and behold just below the surface we discover a woven mat network of wisteria vines reaching in every direction, standing by to take over as quickly as we turn our backs.”

“Oh, if we could just find a real eradicator of wisteria. I don’t think such a defense mechanism has yet been formulated or invented. However, this is what has occurred while we slept. Wisteria, the aggressive, despised enemy of our beautiful garden has again staked its claim on the grounds. The war begins again.”

Signed, Bill.

Here you have it, the naked and exposed hypocrisy of wisteria in Bill’s own words. It’s benign and beastly, beautiful and abominable. Love and hate wrapped in one package, both springing from the same genetic root. Fruit never falls far from its tree.

A proper perspective requires unbiased clarity and common sense. It’s the nature of vines to climb: higher, higher, higher. Entropy occurs at its zenith. Chaos ensues. The vine, being burdened by its own weight and lack of nutriment, finally runs its course. It reverts to the root and begins again its insidious cycle of ascent.

Looking closely, it might even be said that wisteria is greedy, a vine with avarice flowing through its veins. If so, it’s a helpless addict. Greed, like hubristic pride, is one of the seven deadly sins. It’s said to be the root cause of most misery.

With wisteria, there’s no ‘end-point’ to its quest. It’s addicted to ‘not enough.’ It seeks ever higher ‘highs,’ and attempts to consume everything in its path to achieve them. With any addiction, pursuit of the ‘means’ is in itself the ‘end.’

Bill seems bewildered as to how to eradicate the menace from his garden. Unfortunately, the vine’s gene was born in a garden and, as a consequence, is part and parcel of the primordial curse. Vines cannot be eradicated, just managed.

How? Deflection is a good start. While it’s not advisable to redirect this creeping scourge towards one’s neighbor’s home, even though it is bigger than yours, it is a thought.

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Wisteria…we loathe it or love it, revile it or revere it. Good and evil, love and hate. Sounds a lot like human nature, doesn’t it? The fruit doesn’t fall far from that tree, either.

Hang in there, Bill. Remember the price of liberty is eternal vigilance.


Bud Hearn
April 8, 2016

The Magic of Wisteria

“Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, Old time is still a-flying; and this same flower that smiles today, tomorrow will be dying.” Robert Herrick, (1591-1674)

Poets have a way with words. Who cannot think of love when standing under a canopy of lavender wisteria in April?

An enormous heart-pine tree, maybe 60 years old, grows next to our sidewalk. Somehow the grizzled old tree has managed to attract wisteria vines of immense beauty and fragrance. The metaphor may be encouraging to grizzled old geezers. Hope springs eternal.

The gnarled vines, like nooses, cling to the tree like long-lost lovers. Twisted and contorted, they grip the sturdy tree with unyielding choke-holds. A friend says it reminds him of the wedding vows he took with his third wife. Purely coincidental.

Morning dew drips from the lavender bouquets of flowers. No artist’s canvas could recreate a scene more perfectly beautiful. Sidewalk strollers stop beneath the dangling displays of color. They inhale air perfumed with attar of wisteria, nectar of the gods.

Its indescribable sweetness floats freely, effortlessly, as it carelessly wafts its way among the shrubs. Tender breezes tease the bouquets into slight movements. They sway, side to side, swooning in a sensuous, romantic ritual of dance.

I pass this altar each morning when retrieving the newspapers. Time is arrested, infused by the pervading essence. Flowers dangle in small garlands, like locks of lavender braids adorning the hair of angels and young girls at May Pole picnics.

This morning a stranger approaches. She stops, captivated by the dangling array of purple, the color of royalty. We say hello.

Entranced by the display, she says it’s reminiscent of love. She whispers reverentially that wisteria, like love, defies description. She adds that words can’t convey the quintessential quality of the flower’s perfume, much less describe that of love.

Her monologue asserts that to understand either, one must remove the veil through experience. Strange conversation coming from a stranger. I offer no opinion, except to say, “It’s early. Who can discuss love without a cup of coffee first?” We laugh. She smiles, and strolls away.

It’s nice to linger, to savor the moment. Even before coffee, I know it’s impossible to seize the scent of wisteria. It’s a spirit, and like all spirits, it floats freely upon the breezes. We can only receive it, not restrain it, nor retain it. Like love, if it’s selfishly possessive, it withers in our palms.

It’s odd, standing beneath the vines, synthesizing the stranger’s similarities of wisteria and love. Neither asks, “Who’s worthy to receive?” They’re ‘free’ to all. Wisteria and love are magical wherever they blossom, both beautiful in their day. Perhaps there are more similarities, but the coffee, the coffee.

Suddenly the purple nursery appears to be alive. Bumble bees swarm in rapturous delight, flitting promiscuously from petal to petal in a paean of passionate frenzy. They know their time is short. Bees know a lot about wisteria, and perhaps love.

It’s a spectacle of nature at play. I’m mesmerized, wondering how it would be to be a bee. Coffee can wait.

Once we cut some wisteria for the house. Our daughter, a gardener extraordinaire, advised against it. “It will simply wilt and soon die.”

We ignored her warning. But she was right. Soon the gorgeous flowers died. They hung limply over the lip of the vase. Both its fragrance and beauty had faded. The vine is the source of its life. Separated, it becomes a dried flower, useless, except to press between book pages.

Sadly, wisteria is ephemeral. At best, its life cycle is a couple weeks. It gives all it has, while it has it. Then, as quickly as it blooms, it wilts. Its blossoms fade, let go and are scattered by the wind. They lie silently upon the lawn like a bluish-lilac carpet…as beautiful in death as in life.

Back in the house I pour that cup of coffee, recalling the mystic poet’s line: “Love gives, and while it gives it lives; and while it lives it gives.” Do you suppose angels could really appear as strangers?



Maybe there’s metaphor somewhere in this episode…a stranger, the spirit of wisteria, the spirit of love. You decide. But one thing’s for certain, the magic of wisteria and love waits for no one.

Bud Hearn
April 1, 2016