Being sure that these small plants on the bank that runs along the edge of our lawn were wild strawberry, sure that the sprouts coming from the base were runners, I dug them up. Quite pleased with myself and another bonus in life, I transplanted them into my newly prepared vegetable garden. While I worked, my thoughts were in anticipation of the sweet fruit that would eventually come. Foolish as I am at times, I didn't consider that the woodbine must first start from something smaller, something that in its infant form was not choking the life out of something else. I had never met this tenacious wild thing before.
When we moved to this house it was easy to see that the woodbine had control. I realized the strength and the threat of it when I inspected the crab apple that stands at the far end of the lawn. Up along its trunk and reaching high into the tree's branches was a vine as thick as my wrist. From this main vine there were many branches of more vine growing out in every direction possible. Extending from every part of the whole thing were tendrils wrapped around the limbs of the old crab apple. It had also grown up the various bushes and trees that surrounded our yard.
Down below where the yard opens up to a small valley, the vine was flourishing; growing up, around, and over everything. It slides up or along some unsuspecting victim, growing longer and thicker and branching out. As the trunk or main body of the vine lengthens itself, grasping tendrils emerge. They wrap their way around whatever they can to support and encourage the continuous growth of the whole thing. In the ways of nature and survival, the tendrils play their part, constantly searching for a hold. When they are secured, they tighten and with the choking off of nourishment, stunting and deforming is in progress. In this world with timeless cycles of life and death, the woodbine eventually kills its victim. From this cover of five petaled leaves were the remains of dead bushes and small trees, their brittle branches reaching out like grotesque arms and fingers through this sea of green.
I ripped the woodbine down. I spent hours cutting the vine and prying off the hardened tendrils from the mountain ash, the small maples, all the trees and bushes that surrounded our lawn. I took an ax to the thick vine that hugged the old apple. I yanked and pulled my way to the edge of the valley and the two pines that were towering near some ledge-rock. I thought that this would eventually make a nice place to build a wooden bench. To sit at this spot, one could look down this small valley to watch for moose or deer or any other critter that happened along. The woodbine was securely attached to the pine, two inch vines going up the trunks. As I looked up, I could see the leaves of this enemy high in the tree's branches, covering the mighty limbs and dangling down, swaying gently and innocently in the summer breeze.
One by one I grabbed each vine and muttering audibly, I pulled with a vengeance, watching the vine as it slithered down from the highest branches. One of the vines gave out and ripped apart as I was giving a hefty yank. I reeled backwards losing my balance and sat abruptly down on a sapling trunk that a beaver had gnawed off in a previous year. The sharp spiked end easily entered the back of my upper leg and made a good sized puncture wound.
Hateful stuff - this woodbine! I was more determined then ever to rid our yard of it. If I had my druthers, I would rid the whole valley and maybe all of Vermont. On that weekend in July it became my mission in life to search and destroy!
In September, before the tapestry of color that comes with autumn foliage, I noticed the leaves of the woodbine. Some of the vine still flourished further away from our house, some that I had overlooked. 
The leaves had grown big and healthy through the summer of warm days and cool nights and had now turned brilliantly scarlet, their color standing out against the abundance of green that still prevailed. I grudgingly admired the beautiful foliage and gave it some thought.
I still talk to the woodbine but now it's in kinder tones of respect. Although I did unearth it from the vegetable garden when I realized my foolish error, I have altered my attitude concerning this vegetation.
It's four years since we moved to our little cedar shake house in the north country, and I proudly look upon the woodbine that grows up our back porch. I have encouraged 
and directed the course of the growing vines. The tendrils have turned as hard and strong as wood with little knobs that formed on the ends. It locks itself into the porch screening to insure its place for support and growth and the coming Spring.
Nature's balance of bad and good is a lesson that is always worth learning. It seems that after all is said and done, the woodbine can certainly be an asset. It has filled in the whole outside
corner of our porch and in the afternoon, when the summer sun is at its hottest, the shade it gives is a welcome advantage. If you keep up with the fast growing, hardy vines and not let it get out of control, it can be an incredible plus to your homestead.
Then in September, when the leaves have turned to scarlet, the beauty of the woodbine heralds in the splendor of autumn in Vermont and a hint of what is to come.
Story and Art work by L.L. Baker
A short story about a dog"Taking Care Of Business"
A great poem "No Vermonter's In Heaven"
Another "must read" poem"The Calf Path"
© 2007
