I Hate Forsythia

I hate forsythia. Always have. Swear I always will. Its big draw, gaudy yellow flowers, last a couple of weeks in the spring, then drop, leaving a non-descript shag of shrub – no distinct leaves, no autumn color, scraggles of artless twigs in winter. Why have it?
And just as my luck would have it, I’ve inherited a backyard full of the stuff, right where the sunny spot of the yard is. So it has to go. I start hacking it from the ground. My sister stops by during this undertaking and laments, “But how could you? It’s about to bloom in another couple of weeks. Can’t you wait and tear it out after that?”
No. By then my transplants from the sunny Overbrook garden will need to sink their roots into their new home. I need to have it ready for them. So I continue to hack. There’s so much of it, I unfortunately have to space the job out.
We then plan a “Welcome Spring” party, and I get to thinking, isn’t that hideous, gaudy yellow a symbol of spring in these parts? So I cut a few branches and take them inside – for the irony. Four days later, just in time for the party, the twigs burst forth in bloom. Maybe it’s the inside light, but the shade of yellow isn’t as harsh as I thought it would be. The blooms kinda resemble jasmine, one of my favorites. And maybe it’s because the blooms are the only show going in the final bleak days of winter. Reluctantly, I enjoy the blooms.
A few days later, I return to yard to finish off my forsythia clearing. While ripping a huge scraggle of the stuff from the ground, a smaller root ball breaks free. I look down at it, then look around to make sure no one is watching, and take the renegade root ball to a far, less prime part of the yard and throw it in a hole. Maybe it will die, maybe it won’t. But if it doesn’t, I guess some of its forced blooms might come in handy this time next year.