Today was my first gardening day. The weeds, green and fresh as well as
brown and dry were about two feet tall, so I started with the weed
whacker. I hope there was nothing of the asparagus up, yet, but as hard
as I looked, I saw none. Next came raking of the clippings and then the
digging. Ah, yes, the digging. This ancient tangle of weed roots is
hard to cut through. There is a patch where its a bit easier, which I
had turned over last March a year ago, while Ema was also in that
garden. - Memories, everywhere.
But I made sure this time I did the not simply turn over the clumps but shook the dirt out and tossed the roots away. Tante Lulu has done wonders with that dirt. I bet one would pay big money for it in a store, packed in a fancy plastic bag.
I did a little bed before I had enough - or rather my back had enough. About a 2x4 -- not inches, you joker.
To prepare for all this, I changed into my bib coveralls that I bought some many years ago down in GB in the Tractor Supply. They are size 42-30 and I must look like one of those scrawny little old hillbillies on postcards you can buy up in the Blue Ridge. they are dressed in bibs, too, but worn ones. What's missing is the slouch hat, the wispy gray beard and the crooked pipe. The thing is way too big for me, now. Nevertheless, there must be a trick to getting into one and to get the shoulder straps straight. I don't know that trick, yet. Looked to me odd that the bib was longer than the back, but, eventually, got the thing on. I felt almost like some of the guys who were woven on the wagon wheel by the holy Fathers of the Church, back in the days of the Inquisition. I was ready to confess and to admit everything, what with my twisted limbs.
When I got untangled and into the garden, of course the pollen took over and I searched for my handkerchief but the pockets were not where they were supposed to be. Then I noticed that the front of the coverall was bulging as a front for a mature size 42 should, but the bulge was much too low. Then I realized that there were hip pockets where they should not be and I finally realized I had wrestled into this unfamiliar garment and had gotten in backwards! I went up to the garage again to change, because there was a little traffic on the road and then one also feels somewhat like on a stage down there in the garden patch framed with the big old timbers and overlooking the whole valley and Bea's old farmhouse and Steve's old barn. No sense in getting people to talk about you in that way "did you see him yesterday in the garden? Oh, you won't believe it, and I heard him say us Vermonters are a bit weird". I moved very nonchalantly back into the barn, where I had much rather done it in a run, but I did not want to draw special attention.
So anyway, I went back into the garden patch properly outfitted and did my work and when my back said "HALT", just about that loud, I straightened out some and, guess what - the two Canada geese had come up from the pond and were grazing next to me just on the other side of the fence along the pasture. Explain that; wild animals that close to mankind. My constant bobbing up and down with my head to the ground and not much moving around must have made them think I was a goose myself, a weird one, grazing in a weed patch! -- "Look there, Jane, he's a big one, let's stick close to him so we can fly in his slip stream when we start up again" . . .
Life up here stirs such different thoughts than life down there.
I wish you all an equally great day,
With loving thoughts in your direction, Isa
But I made sure this time I did the not simply turn over the clumps but shook the dirt out and tossed the roots away. Tante Lulu has done wonders with that dirt. I bet one would pay big money for it in a store, packed in a fancy plastic bag.
I did a little bed before I had enough - or rather my back had enough. About a 2x4 -- not inches, you joker.
To prepare for all this, I changed into my bib coveralls that I bought some many years ago down in GB in the Tractor Supply. They are size 42-30 and I must look like one of those scrawny little old hillbillies on postcards you can buy up in the Blue Ridge. they are dressed in bibs, too, but worn ones. What's missing is the slouch hat, the wispy gray beard and the crooked pipe. The thing is way too big for me, now. Nevertheless, there must be a trick to getting into one and to get the shoulder straps straight. I don't know that trick, yet. Looked to me odd that the bib was longer than the back, but, eventually, got the thing on. I felt almost like some of the guys who were woven on the wagon wheel by the holy Fathers of the Church, back in the days of the Inquisition. I was ready to confess and to admit everything, what with my twisted limbs.
When I got untangled and into the garden, of course the pollen took over and I searched for my handkerchief but the pockets were not where they were supposed to be. Then I noticed that the front of the coverall was bulging as a front for a mature size 42 should, but the bulge was much too low. Then I realized that there were hip pockets where they should not be and I finally realized I had wrestled into this unfamiliar garment and had gotten in backwards! I went up to the garage again to change, because there was a little traffic on the road and then one also feels somewhat like on a stage down there in the garden patch framed with the big old timbers and overlooking the whole valley and Bea's old farmhouse and Steve's old barn. No sense in getting people to talk about you in that way "did you see him yesterday in the garden? Oh, you won't believe it, and I heard him say us Vermonters are a bit weird". I moved very nonchalantly back into the barn, where I had much rather done it in a run, but I did not want to draw special attention.
So anyway, I went back into the garden patch properly outfitted and did my work and when my back said "HALT", just about that loud, I straightened out some and, guess what - the two Canada geese had come up from the pond and were grazing next to me just on the other side of the fence along the pasture. Explain that; wild animals that close to mankind. My constant bobbing up and down with my head to the ground and not much moving around must have made them think I was a goose myself, a weird one, grazing in a weed patch! -- "Look there, Jane, he's a big one, let's stick close to him so we can fly in his slip stream when we start up again" . . .
Life up here stirs such different thoughts than life down there.
I wish you all an equally great day,
With loving thoughts in your direction, Isa
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