As Papa Hemingway once posed with his lion prey on the plains of Africa, I am posing with my prey in the Garden Patio on Easter Sunday.
Sure, those lions were tough customers, but so are my huge philodendron fronds. Papa could have left the lions in peace — they weren’t bugging him — but the same cannot be said about the philodendron I foolishly planted in the yard years ago.
Today they felt some sharp discipline, something that must be done every couple of months or so. Now I must chop them into smaller pieces and toss them into a huge plastic bag that will be delivered to a dumpster downtown.
I wonder what Papa did with his lions. No clue.
Other things bother me: illegal aliens in the form of Eurasian collared doves who only arrived in Mexico in recent years sans visa. They’re not as bad as regular pigeons, but it’s a close call. They’ve taken up residence in the dead fronds hanging up high on my towering fan palm, something else I stupidly planted years back. Will I never learn?
Actually, I have learned and learned well. I don’t plant anything anymore that may turn into a bothersome behemoth. I just plant nice things, and darn little of that too.
Before I removed the monster bougainvillea that once towered over the property wall, tossing dead flowers not only on my yard but onto the driveway of the sex motel next door, Eurasian collared doves lived in that plant too, hidden from view.
Now they’ve moved into the fan palm, and I make their lives swell because they use my ceramic birdbath for drinking and recreation. They’re like illegal aliens in California, treated nicely. They have found a bird sanctuary, but what I need is a shotgun.
Life is full of challenges, and Easter Sunday doesn’t change that.