Invasive maneuvers: Don't be rash when turning down offers of help

This was all my fault. I am 100% to blame for this particular predicament. 

Mistake #1:  I looked a gift horse in the moth. If by "moth," you mean "firefly." And "gift horse" is actually a "gift field."

Our family has enjoyed the use of the back field behind our house for thirty years despite our repeated failures each time we've asked to buy it.  We just love it. Several times a week, you will inevitably hear Brad Mosiman say, "If we owned that land, we'd...[fill in laborious, back-breaking work-plan]." It's like a little park...sometimes Jurassic in nature as we occasionally battle off three-foot snakes and rats as well as invasions of pus-producing plants that tower over and terrorize us with their leafy-lechery. Our neighbor would graciously cut the field with his tractor but I stupidly asked him if he could do it later in the season so I could enjoy "my" field full of fireflies.

Idiot.

I neglected to consider the time and work that goes into attaching machinery onto a tractor and that my neighbor was fitting us in among all the thousands of other things he was doing. Oh no...I needed this favor he was doing me done on my schedule.

So...when the sumac surfaces and the wild parsley pepper "my" field, I have only myself to blame.

And when Brad Mosiman began muttering that maybe we needed to address the problem "ourselves"...well...whose fault was THAT?

Mistake #2: I consulted my husband.

There has to be an easier way (than actually having to deal with the problem myself).

I began networking.

Which of course, involved breakfast with my friend Deb who knows everything.

She miraculously whipped out a glossy pamphlet detailing how a well-meaning government entity would use our gleefully-given tax dollars to eradicate these invasive plants for us.

Problem solved!

I raced home to share the happy news with my beloved.

"You want to report a problem on land that does not belong to us...shining a spotlight on a parcel of property just begging to be used for a stupid solar-panel pathway (See gleefully-given tax-payer dollars; short-term incentivized tax-write-offs that rape the land of its natural beauty and purpose in order to pacify and exploit the worship-at-the-altar of alternative-energy enthusiasts by individuals whose salary is derived, if not from my gleefully-given tax-payer dollars, then from a foreign country not exactly friendly with the good ol' US of A?...oops, sorry...Where did that come from? My thoughts must have been distracted from the consistent hum of the "always-turning" windmill blades that surround our valley brim, driving down (?) our energy bills and making our lives so much better with their reliable clean power.), a parts parking lot, or yet another manure lagoon? No. Ever-hopeful, Brad Mosiman was resolved to address this problem on his (our?) own.

He inspected the field and did some calculations.

"If we (dressed from head-to-toe in oppressively hot, claustrophobic, movement-limiting astronaut suits) cut 40 stalks a day, we'll be done by September," my husband told me excitedly (in July).

This was my fault. It was time to suit-up.

We cut 40. "Well. That wasn't so bad," Brad said, admiring our pile as I gasped for oxygen, bent at the waist, bemoaning my choice of ankle socks, certain that the milky residue from the wild parsley was going to, at any minute, cause painful and unsightly boils to bubble up on my gazelle-like ankles. Brad paused significantly while I caught my breath. "Fine," I said, "Let's do another 40." "Are you sure?" he asked, with feigned concern, pretending that he was willing to stop as agreed. 300 stalks later, Brad declared the field 1/16th complete. 

God took pity when Brad went to fire up the 4-wheeler to haul our filled trailer away. Oh no. The starter went. And it would be a week or so for the parts to arrive. And, oh no, then I would be gone to Austin and San Diego to visit the girls. C'est domage!

Brad Mosiman is a master of the long game.

That's great when it comes to marriage.

That's terrible when it comes to projects.

 So...there we were again...with a working 4-wheeler and a not-wanting-to work wife home from traveling.

Sadly, I wasn't dressed sufficiently so Brad waded into the sumac solo.

I watched as he waged war, intent on raising the Mosiman flag of victory on land that did not belong to us.

He mercilessly and methodically hacked his way through the frightening foliage strangling the field.

Suddenly, as I sipped my cold beverage and snacked on a small bag of chips, Brad's head emerged, like a rural whack-a-mole. "Did you hear that?" he asked, frozen in place. I shook my head. I couldn't hear over the sound of my crunchy chips. Brad then fairly levitated from his militarized gained ground and zipped over to me as a cloud of disgruntled bees rose into the air.  Another act of God, perhaps?

We waited, from a safe distance, for the miraculous menace to settle down. I wondered if I had time to grab another snack.

Brad then waded carefully back in...secretly snipping sumac while I was instructed to stand in surveillance (while I snacked).

Brad self-evacuated the area two more times before declaring the field 1/14th complete.

100% my fault.