Green Lacewing (one of the good guys), waiting patiently.

To the spider mites, the earwigs, and especially the thrips, residing without permission at the property known as My Garden:

This letter serves as formal notice that your tenancy is terminated, effective immediately. I’d like to say it’s nothing personal, but it is most definitely personal.

I will address you each in turn, because you’re not equally guilty.

To the spider mites: You are, honestly, impressive. You are nearly invisible, you reproduce faster than I can read about how to stop you, and you have somehow webbed the underside of my Gerrie Hoek like you spent the last six years studying architecture. I noticed the stippling on the leaves three weeks ago and convinced myself it was probably nothing. That’s on me. I’ve come to realize that “probably nothing” is what you mites are counting on. As things now stand, I can no longer tolerate the toll you are taking on my dear Gerrie. I have a hose with a jet setting and a bottle of Castile peppermint soap.  You’ve been warned. What happens next is up to you.

To the earwigs: We need to talk about the petals. Specifically, the ragged holes in the petals of blooms I waited three months for. Three months. I planted those dahlia tubers in May. I checked on them before work like they were sick relatives. And you! You waited until the exact evening a bloom opened, and helped yourself to a snack. Not the leaves. Not the weeds, of which I have plenty and would happily donate. The bloom. I’ve set out the cups of soy sauce and the rolled-up newspaper traps, which every gardener online seems to swear by. Imagine for a minute what it feels to have to type that sentence: I am fighting you with soy sauce and damp newspaper. This is where I am. But still, I like my odds.

To the thrips: You are the absolute worst, and I’ll tell you why. The mites announce themselves, eventually. The earwigs at least commit; a hole is a hole. You just make everything slightly wrong and leave me second-guessing every plant for signs of a virus. Funky leaves. Streaked petals. Buds that open looking tired, as if they had a long night. At first, I just thought they were dahlias being dramatic. Then I compared their leaves to viral photos from the internet, searching for proof of an infection. Finally, I did the thing where you tap a bloom over a sheet of white paper, and YOU fell out, and I sat with that for a minute. There were more of you than there are people I like. Which, for the record, is maybe three.

So, let’s talk about your departure.

Last night on the deck, I saw the green lacewings gathering and did a happy dance. Yes, I’m aware of how that sounds. I responded to an infestation by celebrating the appearance of more insects, but for the record, I’ve been assured these guys are on my side, and frankly I need all the help I can get right now. Any of them that are still hanging around tomorrow will be on the payroll. Consider them my property managers.

In closing, I want to be clear about one thing: I am not doing this because I’m persnickety about a tidy garden. Anyone who’s seen my gardens knows I’m okay with “messy.” I’m doing this because in late August and September this quarter acre produces something that fills my soul in a way I can’t quite put into words—and you are eating it. I have very few non-negotiables, but “don’t destroy my flowers” is at the top of the list.

I’m not unreasonable, and I work a full-time job, so you have until the weekend. After that, the soap comes out, the newspaper goes down, and the lacewings, the loyal ones, have their orders.

My dahlias are beautiful. My feelings toward you are not.

Regards,
The Landlord

P.S. — To the aphids: I know you’re reading this. Don’t get comfortable.