Ducklings, Redwoods and Stupidity

The Birdman gives racist bigotry a bad name. His jokes are predictable and thus rendered tedious by the punch line. 'There was this Englishman, Irishman and Maori...' I sidle towards the door, hoping he won't notice I've left.

I don't feel too affronted by the man, though. He had a tough childhood. Besides that, there's a ludicrous quality about him - like he's stuck in some fifties timewarp - a regular Rip Van Winkle.

Outside it's raining, but, I consider it preferable than the cringing unease inside as the Birdman launches into another joke. Gardeners seem to have thicker skins than mine - I guess being outdoors all the time does it.

I'm besieged by ducks hopeful for a handout. They're mingled with ducklings so small I doubt they'll survive the cold snap. How can little things like puffballs be so robust? Feral cats and children will account for a few, that's true. But a good many will survive to learn where the gardener's lunchroom is.

Way off towards the camellias there's stand of totara and a lone confused redwood that stabs the grey sky above me. This one is a beauty - I so love these trees. The stand is where I go to do crazy things.

A bunch of Bikini Kill found its way on my iPod mix today and Kathleen Hanna screeches sarcasm into my ears. It's so good, appropriate, and I dance away under the Redwood where no-one can see.

On Monday I did a perk job for this old guy. He paid me in beer, which far exceeded the value of the work - it was Monteith's, a good brew. I felt obligated to listen to him.

He told me he did his edges by drenching them in creosote. Creosote is a wood preserver and my Father's generation used it as a weed killer. It's highly toxic and you can't use it where it can leech into the water table. This guy couldn't honestly give a shit. My dad also used DDT and 24D way up to when it was banned in the early 70s. I shudder to think what my dioxin level is. (More Agent Orange sprayed on the chickweed in our backyard than Vietnam's Central Highlands.)

"I suppose the hairy leg, tree huggers would have a fit," he tells me.

"Uh, yeah," I reply, clutching my beer.

I didn't want to disappoint the guy or he might take back his beer. But it was fucking outrageous that this old boy should pour poison on his garden and not give a shit. These days they have stuff like Glyphosate that will break down after a few days. There's no excuse to use shit like Creosote.

I figured this guy and the Birdman would get on famously. They could happily peel back a generation or two of environmental technology secure in the knowledge it's all being done to frustrate them. They can toss in a little racist and sexist bigotry to go along with it.

"Never did us any harm, eh?" he grunts as I make an excuse and leave.

"Good luck with the DNA," I call back, loading the man's beer into the truck.

"Huh?"

Don