I have come to loathe Johnson grass, a plant unknown to me before I moved to Arizona. This is not to say that Arizona has an exclusive on this nasty weed. Turns out it has made its way to almost every state, including Hawaii, and it grows on every continent except Antartica. How did I manage to miss it for all these years? Just lucky, I guess. But now, my lack of relationship with Johnson grass is being repaid tenfold. Every day, and especially now, in the monsoon season, I can become obsessed with it, and I know I am not alone.
As with so many scourges, this one was imported with good intentions. It was brought to South Carolina in the early 1800s as a forage crop and is named after Col. William Johnson, an Alabama plantation owner who sowed its seeds on riverbottom farm land circa 1840. The Colonel must have bragged about his brilliant crop before he realized it could kill his livestock, crowd out most good plants, and outsmart any attempts to eradicate it. His namesake is ranked among the top 10 noxious weeds in the world.
Aside from poison ivy (which, thank heaven, does not grow on my land, although it has been spotted at slightly higher altitudes not far from here), the most noxious weed I have ever encountered is something called bindweed, aka convolvulus or wild morning glory. This vine, if left unattended, can wind its way into and around and over everything. I spent hours of my gardening life in Washington trying to control this pesky plant, which is also on the top 10 list. Its stem breaks easily, and its white, wormy roots go down and down and down so far that I used to think there was an enormous central knot of bindweed at the center of the earth. When I discovered it growing in New Zealand, I realized I could be right.
Imagine my terror (not too strong a word) when I learned that there were morning glories in these parts. And how delighted I was to find that what we have here is just a naturalized morning glory from an old Burpee seed packet, not the dreaded convolvulus. I love seeing the small blue or pink flowers scattered over the fences and climbing up whatever comes to hand (sometimes a stalk of Johnson grass) as they open to the morning light.
At this time of year the plant world goes nuts. I sometimes think I can hear the good grasses and the bad weeds growing in the moonlight. We mow and then we mow again, and a few rain storms later, you can’t tell the difference. Often, among the dense green growth, I lose sight of the Johnson grass. But when I’m pulling weeds, I always find it. Johnson grass is tough, and its roots hold onto the earth with uncanny strength, finally breaking free if pulled and mangled enough, but almost always leaving some piece of itself behind to spring to life again. Bindweed was gentler, and it did produce white morning glory blossoms. Johnson grass just sets thousands of seeds, and wrestling with it hurts my hands, back, and brain.
Across the road from my house is a field of Johnson grass. Right now it is taller than I am and full of seeds for the next growing season. In my mind, just below the surface of the field, I picture a thick mat of gnarly roots. I’ve heard tell that ranchers of old used to plow such fields before seeds formed and then bring in a herd of goats to chomp on the exposed roots. This seems like a brilliant solution. Of course, I don’t own the land, or a tractor, or a herd of goats. All I can do is tend to my own territory, excavate the grass when the soil is wet, and look forward to the dry season when the whole plant world and I get to take a rest.