Charles Nemeth was sitting with some friends at a picnic table near the bocce courts in a corner of Eglinton Flats Park, just north of Eglinton, west of Jane.

The park is the size of France.

Charles, as you recall, was given a ticket last year for weeding without a permit. The fine was $350. Who knew that pulling weeds was an offence?

Charles has not paid his fine. He will not pay. Nor should he pay. Alas, in the manner of these things, the amount he “owes” has ballooned to $444.

I remind you that Charles is 86 years old. He has survived a revolution. He made a living here in the restaurant business. He was awarded a certificate from a previous mayor for his tree-planting efforts. He has earned the right to scoff at those who think that weeding is a crime.

Charles has been forced to curb his efforts, but he is wily and he has not ceased; he and his friends make sure to keep an eye out for strangers who might be park cops.

They are still gunning for him.

“Two weeks ago, a young guy is coming.” By “young guy” he meant an issuer of tickets for the crime of gardening. “He said to me: ‘Your driver’s licence would be suspended because you don’t pay.’” Charles laughed. He no longer drives. He walks to the park daily, and we should encourage him to do so for as long as he is able.

And then he made a happily defiant face. “Send me to court. I’m not guilty. I’m stealing nothing. I plant. You see over there, the lilies?”

I saw them there. He planted them.

He said, “I pull weeds now when no one is looking. I can’t understand when people don’t appreciate someone doing something.”

Mirko, a friend of Charles said, “I don’t agree with this — why get a ticket when you do something good for the country?”

Yes, good for the country, because the local is the universal: Eglinton Flats is Toronto, Toronto is Ontario, and Ontario is the country, for which Charles is doing something good.

Slavo, another friend said, “He was for years digging, cleaning — now look, it’s a jungle.” And then a third friend pointed to the encroaching weeds. “Every year you got the park less and less, because of the weeds; look here.” Weeds, more and more.

A ticket?

Charles should get a medal.

And so, as his friends began to toss bocce balls, Charles took me for a stroll around the bushes. He said, “I plant horseradish, kale, peppers for the poor people. They should cancel the ticket. I’m not guilty. I plant berries.” And he pointed to something that smelled sweetly. “This is, I forget the name, good for tea.”

He has planted chamomile.

He also showed me where the city had planted some little spruce trees. They are overwhelmed by giant thistles. “Last year I clean up, I give air, I give light.” This year, some of the trees are dying.

I called the manager of parks the other day. She may not have given the ticket, but what happens in that park is done in her name. I wanted to know if she would use her power to cancel the ticket and further, to allow Charles to continue to make the country better.

She did not call. An assistant did. I did not want an assistant.

But a day and a half later, I got a call from the director of bylaw enforcement. He’s not parks, he’s tickets; good enough for me.

John De Courcy said he was under the impression the fine was for planting things in the park. No, sir; it was for pulling vegetation, which I think is city-speak for weeds. Mr. De Courcy, who sounds reasonable, said that pulling weeds was probably not a bad thing to encourage.

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He also said the city had been trying to work with Charles for a long time and had offered him some other place to plant, but he did not know where that was or how far away it might be from the bocce court, and in the end he said there was no alernative but to issue a ticket, which I repeat he thought was for planting.

Because who knows where planting might lead? The crime of salad?

Aux armes, citoyens.