In Memory Of: Cactus - Chris Callaghan

The huge prickly pear cactus had been growing undisturbed by the steps in the back yard for years. Jim figured twenty years, maybe even thirty. Its big flat paddles reached up ten feet tall and spread out at least that wide at the base.

Jim had always hated it. If he went carelessly down the second tier of steps by its lair it might reach out and spear him with one of its inch long vicious needles. Sometimes he’d swing an arm or hand too close to an emerging new paddle and get a fine coating of tiny spines embedded in his skin. They hurt like hell and were barely visible in the sun, virtually impossible to remove. But within an hour, a maddening itch and dots of blisters in his flesh would show him those he’d missed.

His mother, Velma, had loved that plant. She’d never pruned it, and seemed to glory in its ferocity. She only let him take off a paddle or two when they’d grown out obnoxiously past the hand rail and were therefore more capable of attacking any passing flesh.

Velma was five years dead now, and she’d left the cactus and the house to Jim. Each time he passed the cactus he cursed it, but couldn’t quite bring himself to destroy the thing. Whether it was out of respect for its age or his mother he didn’t know, but the most he could manage was judicious pruning.

At the end of last winter, the prickly pear developed a rash of small white spots which Jim ignored for quite some time. Unhindered, the spots multiplied until they painted both sides of most of the paddles and hung down the bottom edges like long white beards. A leprous cotton candy rot. Jim tried spraying it off with water, but it just grew back. In the spring fruit grew along the tops of the paddles and opened large yellow blooms. But although the bees hovered above the flowers they did not land. Even the bees knew something was drastically wrong.

Jim finally looked up cactus diseases on the internet and found a picture of his with the same sticky white fluff on it, and under the picture was the name for it.

Cochineal insect infestation. The article said that once it was this far along, there were no remedies. The minuscule insects burrowed deep into the flesh of the cactus and laid their eggs, and every patch of white was protective cover for those eggs. He checked six different websites and they all said the same thing. The only solution was drastic surgery. Chop off any parts infected with the white spots and throw them in the trash. Disinfect the knife between cuttings.

The advanced rot gave Jim the justification he wanted to finally get rid of the cactus. He’d started the job at nine am Saturday morning, his biggest knife, barbeque tongs, and a twenty gallon garbage can at the ready. He wore thick leather gloves to protect his hands.

By ten-thirty he’d already stopped twice to pick cactus spines out of his knuckles and realized just how heavy each twelve inch paddle was. He could barely lift the first half-full garbage can to empty it into the dumpster. So he pulled the dolly and another can out from under the porch and only filled the cans a third-full next time. He took periodic breaks to minister to his punctured aching hands and think about how many trips he’d made to the dumpster and how much cactus there still was left to cut.

Right after lunch he grabbed a 2” thick paddle with his tongs and it shot a black needle right into his left cheek like a bullet. Was it only his imagination that the cactus seemed to be fighting its dismemberment?

By four pm his arms were shaking from hefting weighty 3” thick slabs to the trash cans. The tongs had broken in half and he’d dropped the last paddle on his foot. It sent two needles through his boot and the edge left a dusting of spines on his shin. Enough was enough, he didn’t have the strength to hoist the last two can loads into the dumpster. So he washed the goo off his tools, the sweat off his face and neck and quit.

He went into the house, grabbed a cold beer, the tweezers and some salve, and sat back on the porch to observe the gaping hole where the monster had been. It was amazing that all those years of growth could have been decimated in one afternoon, but he was glad it was gone. Then he noticed the clumps of aloe that had been huddling under the giant for so long. They seemed to be stretching up into the gap. He’d almost forgotten they were there. With a slurp of his beer he toasted their health and growth. Wonderful aloe: beneficial, healing, and NO spines!

But after he tended his wounds he thought to toast the vanquished beast. “Here’s to you, you bastard. You fought a good fight, but I won!” Then he went into the house to see what was on TV.