I found a way to kill Bermuda weeds without an herbicide or destroying my back. All it requires are a tractor, fuel, and time. Farmers may have tractors and fuel, but time is becoming increasingly rare.

I discovered this system quite by accident. In one block of vines where I did not use herbicides, I had to experiment with alternatives in order to control a small patch of Bermuda. Dad told me to watch Bermuda like a hawk. He warned, "Once it's established you have to work doubly hard to destroy it." For my father and his generation, that sort of intensive labor was work; my generation considers it purgatory. The thought of doubling my efforts lodged in my mind and translated into hours of shoveling and a sore back.

I recall seeing my Baachan, my grandmother, as she stooped over a shovel, working her hands, pulling stubborn roots, slicing and stabbing the weeds, leaving a series of small piles of drying turf behind her. For hours she'd work, then stand and trudge home for lunch, leaning forward as if walking against the wind, her back bent and shoulders hunched.

My God, I thought, that's why all those old folks from farm villages walked that way. It wasn't just age, it was from hours stooped over a shovel. It was from Bermuda. I was determined find a different way to attack my weeds.

I found a compromise position between the generations. I kill Bermuda by disking it again and again and again and alternate that with days where the 100-degree heat does the work for me, cooking the nasty weed.

Bermuda poisons a farm. I read that it was allelopathic, like ickweed, literally carrying a noxious poison as it spreads, killing competitors in its path. Bermuda grows as a thick mat,

and once it is rooted you can barely cut it with a shovel. Even then, you will probably miss a portion that will lie dormant underground until life-giving water comes along and presto, the green will return with new sprouts and shoots.

Herbicides work well against Bermuda. Some burn like a liquid fire, searing the weed's green leaves and stems. Others kill in a systemic fashion. Sprayed on green growth, the chemical is absorbed into the cells and destroys the roots, making it more efficient and less toxic than other methods. But as part of my decision to farm a different way, I chose not to use chemical controls for my fields. When an herbicide kills weeds, I wonder, what other life dies? Part of my desire in saving my Sun Crest peaches is to build, not destroy life.

A few summers ago I was preparing the ground for the coming fall and dormant season. Many farmers make a final pass through their fields, diking in the last of the summer weeds, turning the earth over for winter beds.

In one row I discovered a small stand of Bermuda growing in the middle of the row, thick and matted. It looked like a putting green, a manicured oasis in the rough. I made a pass over it with the disk, and the blades simply bounced on the turf. I stopped, backed up, and made another pass. The blades followed the same path and gradually began slicing into the tight mass of grass and roots. I repeated the process over and over, and with each effort my disk cut deeper until I actually turned over fat slices of sod. I thought of selling the Bermuda logs to new homeowners as instant landscaping: "Guaranteed. Just add water."

Because the Bermuda row happened to be along my driveway, I could monitor any weed rebirth. A few days later I noticed something green. The turf logs had rerouted and new Bermuda shoots were searching for sunlight. It was returning like a creature in a bad horror movie.

The disk was still connected to the tractor so I vented my anger on the putting green, which had now become a small golf range. All I accomplished was to spread the Bermuda down the row, doubling its territory. So I repeated the purging and once again pulverized the turf. Since the roots were already sliced, they gave way more easily this time. I diced them into small chunks yet feared I had only replanted a longer fairway.

Then nature came to my rescue. A heat wave visited the valley and daytime temperatures soared into the 100s. The diced Bermuda baked and fried. I returned to the patch and found almost all the life sucked from the roots. The small chunks of turf broke up in my hands. With a final diking the Bermuda cleansing was complete. The roots were cooked, the humus soft, like powder.

Yet I knew some roots bury themselves deep in the earth and will resprout next year. I imagined they would become a small archipelago, strung out along the vine row. I marked the spot with bright yellow surveyor's tape and planned to return for an annual purge.

I discovered a system not much different from my father's and my grandmother's. They too would return to the same spot year after year, attacking the Bermuda. I have revived the old practice, albeit with a modern 65-horsepower tractor. Even with my "new" traditional approach to farming, quick fixes are rare and a good memory may be my best ally against weeds. I have a competitive friendship with my Bermuda, and I return to it annually. Some years I have to give ground, other times I gain the upper hand. But I come back again and again, thinking of time in terms of years, perhaps even a lifetime.

However, the tractor poses an organic farming paradox: I may not use herbicides but I burn huge amounts of fuel and energy on a relatively small block of weeds. I sometimes think, One good shot of herbicide and the Bermuda could have been taken care of for years. Meanwhile billows of diesel exhaust trail behind my tractor with each assault. So I think about air pollution as I farm "naturally." I feel a little guilty until I think of Baachan's strong back and her tenacity to battle weeds, neither of which I possess. I sense my paradox will not be resolved soon.