I scan the field for wildflowers as the Texas sun scalds the back of my neck. I’m looking for potential transplants that would look pretty in the front garden.

With every passing year, Cody and I crave more vivid colors. He says our eyes are growing dim and we need more brightness and contrast. Makes us sound like old televisions, hoping our warranties haven’t expired.

Plants don’t grow easily in this part of the Hill Country. Between the ongoing drought and the hard caliche, it’s mostly tough grass and low-lying weeds. Wildflowers flourish, though, and the unexpected rain yesterday brought new arrivals.

Prairie verbena has popped up in clumps all over the field, with its grey-green leaves shaped like frog hands, each carrying a bright purple bouquet. I spot a particularly large and healthy one growing on a small hill.

I remove my gloves. I need to really feel the earth and the roots to perform this delicate bit of surgery. Getting the entire taproot will be essential to a successful transplant.

Fire ants have made a nest beside the plant, likely extending underneath it. You can tell by the puffed-up gray soil covered in tiny craters. I’m going to have to work quickly.

I jab the small shovel into the soil with my left hand and carefully grip and wiggle the plant with my right. My first attempt is too shallow, and there’s a chance I’ll break the taproot. I reposition the blade and push at a steeper angle, holding my breath, pulling a little harder on the plant.

I feel the plant loosen. I exhale with relief. Then I feel the searing pain.

Fire ants are all over my hand, their shiny red bodies zipping around the sun spots and also my silver and turquoise rings. The image is lovely, but each ant is also a tiny drop of molten lava.

This is not a surprise. I knew the risk I was taking.

When I was younger, I would have run frantically to the garden hose to spray the ants off. Instead, I gently brush them away with my other hand. I know the stinging won’t last long, and it’s me who’s invaded their territory today.

I once saw a documentary about how fire ants came to Texas. They’ve been here only a hundred years. They cause a lot of damage to the native ecosystem. Yet, they also aerate the soil. They’re here to stay.

I carry the verbena up to the front garden and plant it next to some winecups I purchased at the nursery last week. The pain in my hand is gone by the time I finish.

A noticeably cooler breeze whisks through the yard, rustling the small brown oak leaves scattered on the stone walkway.

I hear a commotion from the house. Cody bursts through the front door and ambles down the path towards me. A ninja he is not.

“Keeping outta trouble?”

“What do you think?” I tell him about the fire ants.

We both laugh.

Across the yard, a large lantana bush has started to bloom with pale yellow flowers. I tell Cody how magnificent it would look as a backdrop to the purple verbena and the burgundy winecups. Brightness and contrast.

“I was just reading an article about how rattlesnakes hide in the shade of lantana bushes like…” He cuts himself off.

Cody looks down at his feet, smirking. He knows me too well.

We laugh again.

I grab a bigger shovel from the garage. I walk across the yard and survey the spot where the lantana is growing.

The sun shifts behind a large cloud. I hear a slow rumble of thunder. I think I can get this done before the storm hits. It’s actually an ideal time.

The topsoil is slightly saturated from yesterday’s rainfall – the narrow difference between concrete and, well, softer concrete. Three inches down, it’ll be concrete again. This is a two-person job.

“I figured you might need a little help.” Cody is standing right behind me, holding a pickaxe. Ninja’s been in training, I guess.

“Yes, thank you,” I say. “Think we can beat this storm?”

“Do we have a choice?”

I smile. “Can you dig a trench circling the plant? We’re going to need to get the rootball on this one. I’ll go grab the pruners so we can cut it back before moving it.”

I head to the garage. “Hey Cody, don’t forget to check for…”

“I got it, we’re clear,” he says as he thwacks the ground with the pickaxe.

By the time I return, he’s halfway around the plant. I feel a few sprinkles on my arm.

I prune the branches down hard. It’ll come back stronger that way.

Cody’s dug a nice trench several inches deep. He straddles the bush, leaning over to pull it up from the bottom. I angle the shovel in towards the plant, wiggling it back and forth to get underneath the mass of roots as much as I can, which honestly isn’t much. I try to pry it up from my side as he pulls hard. We’re getting nowhere fast.

It’s starting to pour buckets, soaking us.

The heavy rain mixed with what sounds like hail rattles across the yard. Snakes of water thread their way over the rootball. Cody’s prophecy fulfilled.

We’re in it now, though, and we’re making progress. The water has saturated the soil enough to loosen the plant considerably, but it’s still stubborn. My long grey hair is plastered to my face and neck. I lean in to lever the shovel deeper as Cody pulls as hard as he can.

The dam breaks, and he falls onto his backside – the bush, the roots, and the mud clutched in his arms, dripping down his sides and legs.

“Well, that was easy!” he exclaims. He’s okay – still his wry, old self.

I lean over to help him up. I slip on the wet ground and fall down next to him, laughing.

He sets the bush down. We lie there on our backs, letting the rain wash some of the mud and grime off. It’s getting cold.

“The only thing that would make this funnier is if one of our neighbors came by,” I say, shivering.

“Well, how’s this for laughs…we have one more hole to dig,” Cody says. Another crack of thunder hits like a rimshot.

“It’ll give us something to do in the morning. The lantana will be fine in this rain. More than fine.”

“Like you?” Cody says.

The yard is a mess, we’re a mess, the garden will be beautiful…tomorrow.

We go inside the house together.