Anyone who has fought and conquered an invasive weed ought to have a medal. Through dogged perseverance my mom has bested cockleburs, ragweed, and pigweed in her garden. My hat is off to her. I haven't been quite as victorious in my fight against the poison ivy, the honeysuckle, the privet, and the Bermuda grass.
Boy, have we fought the Bermuda grass! My son and I have dug bushels of the roots. Once when he was quite a bit younger, we were digging up Bermuda grass in the mixed border. (Well, "mixed border" is really a highfalutin thing to call the mess I've got. I had one neighbor who referred to it as my "rough area." I do have aspirations (possibly delusions), so I rarely refer to it as my "rough area." I usually just say "mulched area.") We came across a bone. I surmised it could have been a bone buried by a dog or perhaps it was in the mulch we brought in (shredded yard waste from the landfill). I asked my son if he thought it was an animal bone or a "people bone." His response said it all.
"It's a bone of our forebears who died fighting Bermuda grass."