The summer rains were an unexpected boon to the region, keeping our corner of the state green and lush. August is normally scorched-earth month here in the heartland, a month of sweating and swearing and pining for frost. This year I held my breath and prayed for the summer never to end. The cool nights on the deck with hot tea and a light sweater have been almost surreally pleasant.

In our yard, the rains helped dispatch the “cotton” from our now-infamous trees, beating it from their limbs and sluicing it down the driveway and into the storm sewer as I watched with delight. The rains did, however, have an unintended side effect in our yard. We had a 30-by-60 foot area that was essentially an unusable eyesore. It was fenced off and choked with weeds, some 12 feet tall.

During the first five years in this house, we actually found this wild fecundity a bit charming and, frankly, just too much trouble to deal with. But two years ago, my husband, whose skills apparently do not include identification of Toxicodendron radican — poison ivy — mowed the patch, aerosolizing the oil of the plant.

What followed was a summer of itching, disfigurement, trips to the emergency room for airway swelling and rampant side effects of the medicine he was taking to reduce the reaction. He was up at all hours, irritable beyond belief, staring darkly at the patch, scratching absent-mindedly, and muttering “leaves of three …”

The counter-assault was on. In spite of our pacifism and environmentalism, we began a campaign of chemical warfare. The home team made progress, eventually reducing the ground to a mostly dead landscape covered with withered brown vines.

Curiously, a large patch of tall broad-leafed green grass remained, thriving on the herbicide. This mutant was thought to be a form of maiden grass and was given to me by a generous but (I was soon to discover) misguided friend. I kind of admired its tenacity and enjoyed the hypnotic way it swayed in the wind. With only this lone rebel standing proud, we began to make plans to raze and mulch the area. That was last fall.

This year, the astounding regularity of rain thwarted our best efforts to stay ahead of the insurgents, and they were thriving. The patch had become mostly jungle, with small drums beating at night as the occupants plotted to overthrow us in our sleep. They had enlisted allies — an aggressive vine from two yards over crawled the fence, twisting its way into our yard. Runners of the ivy from the front yard cropped up everywhere, and poison ivy appeared at random intervals. A malignant crop my mother-in-law identified as “water grass” had advanced halfway across the side yard.

We decided to get professional help.

Our landscaper, thankfully, was not cowed by the situation, although I think he was a bit shocked to hear that I myself had planted the “maiden grass,” which was actually Johnson grass, a vicious infiltrator. He gently suggested that it probably had not been “helpful.” I was suitably abashed. Undaunted, he drew up battle plans and set a date.

Unfortunately our weed patch had become a catch-all, the resting place for about a hundred ruined bricks and cement blocks from our old deck, several railroad ties, a roll of chicken fence and a number of felled branches. We set about clearing it out. The cool breezy morning made the job almost pleasant. Almost.

Recently, the landscapers came. The crew made short work of the rebels, but I wasn’t home to witness the execution. Our plot was ready to be planted and mulched, and looked remarkably like a wild little boy with his hair slicked back for school pictures — almost tame. The battle was nearly won, the coup put down with Round-up and a brush-hog. In a few years, as our patch matures, we will have a lush landscape full of carefully selected plants chosen to delight the eye and minimize labor, plants that have been selected for their ability to thrive in the gardens of the lazy and uninformed.

At least that’s the plan.

As I weed and water (I swear I will) my newly landscaped environment, I must remain vigilant — not my best trait when it comes to gardening. But I think that I’ll keep the landscaper’s number on my speed-dial because I have seen the wildness in action and realize that the gifts and strengths of players like Toxicodendron radican or Johnson grass are more than a match for me and my small shelf of mint-condition garden books.

— Karen Roberts is a nurse practitioner in Lawrence.