It may be summer time in the States, but my living definitely ain't easy.

To blame for my distress are two tiny patches of land making up the front and back yard of my Baltimore abode. I say "land", because in its current state it can hardly be called a garden.

But of course, it has loads of potential. And that's exactly why I'm too guilt-ridden to leave it alone.

The rented rowhouse with its red brick façade (circa 1950) also needs all the help it can get. Make no mistake, it had a garden once, long ago. The evidence of it is still faintly visible beneath the weeds surrounding the trees.

The two Cedars in the front are the only trees in the entire street. I still don't know if this is something to be proud of or not, because they too have seen better days. They are facing an uncertain future, and Mr. and Mrs. Landlord have been in constant debate over whether they should be chopped off or not.

For the time being, they remain standing and I use them as a convenient excuse not to fall in with the garden gnome tradition going on in the rest of the street. What the neighbours lack in greens, they've made up for with bright (mostly pink), plastic garden "accessories". The result is front yards bedecked in an amusing array of frogs, chubby-cheeked gnomes, dwarves, pink flamingoes, flags-for-every-occasion-and-season, and even the odd plastic flower fan with leaves that happily spin around in the breeze. You get the picture…

At first I thought the gnomes were merely part of Baltimore's horticultural tradition, but now I'm starting to suspect that the neighbours are plotting together and using the gnomes in a desperate attempt to send me a message: "Limited edition trees or not, do something to your garden!"

The dilemma is that my fingers aren't even the faintest shade of green. In fact, I'm notorious for letting the toughest cactus shrivel up and die. Forget anything that needs water on a regular basis… I hardly glance at a flower and it wilts.

It's not intentional, honestly! I love flora as much as anyone and long for a lush little garden with a gurgling fountain, fragrant flowers and herbs and a wrought iron bench where I can stretch out to sip my morning coffee while being serenaded by the birds.

It is with this beautiful and very ambitious illusion in mind that I set out to destroy the stubborn weeds. It's not long before the situation turns into a full-fledged war and I realise that there are indeed some plant life (if you can define a weed as such) that even I am unable to kill…

In fact, I started finding it much easier to pull out my hair in frustration. A tad more painful and a lot less productive, yes, but at least something came out when I pulled.

But I'm South African. And we're tough (right?). So I flatly refuse to give up.

My stubborn resolve has paid off: A few daisies have made a miraculous appearance by sprouting through the barrier of weeds where I vaguely remember scattering some seeds a few weeks ago. As if that alone isn't enough to almost make me drop dead with surprise: all six of them actually flowered! Adding an unexpected but very welcome splash of colour to an otherwise rather drab looking yard. And it was good timing too, because I was rapidly running out of hair to pull.

The weeds… well… they are a different story. Let's just say they are still there. But only because I've given myself some time off to rethink my strategy. To be honest, I'm also so smug about having actual flowers in the garden that I don't really care about the weeds too much right now.

There is just one problem though: the flowers are in the back yard, which is far more secluded and private than the front. Therefore none of the neighbours can share in my feat!

And I don't know if it's merely my imagination, but it feels as if those garden gnomes are slowly closing in on me…

The literal moral of this story, fellow immigrants, is that the grass (or in this case, the weeds) is not necessarily greener in our new adopted countries.

But with some luck and resolve, you can indeed reap what you sow.