|Everett tackles the brush pile from several summers of gardening|
This photo wasn't taken today; hell no. Today it's winter without snow. Cold, grey, windy, and miserable, with rain threatening.
You can see we have a serious dandelion explosion. I actually like them—till after they've seeded out, that is. Then they're ugly. And they will take over your grass if you let them. Those you see here surround my flower beds on three sides (though the bed is curved), and the greenspace you see is only a fraction of the area. Scott is going to bring over some cows to "clean it up." I'll be happy to have them there, but worried about the garden. Cows respect an electric fence, but only when they want to. According to someone, maybe someone local or maybe Temple Grandin, cows know that the jolt from the fence only stings for a short blast and then is over. If they want what is on the other side of the fence bad enough, they will take the risk. Or if something spooks them, they are less afraid of that wire fence than of being eaten. I will watch from my high tower (that's funny, Pamelo Jo, about your dogs announcing Your Highness), ready to run out and chase them off. There's a lot of good 'eatin' in my flower beds.
This happens to me after beginning to weed out dandelions every summer: when I close my eyes, I see one as if it's a mandala; you know, with spokes of energy shooting out from a central core, as the dandelion leaves appear when they are still young and you look at them from above. The image is compelling because I'll see it in my mind's eye often during a day. It's even come to a point where I'd like to change the image because I've seen enough damn dandelions that day.
I'm still moving plants out there, and impatient to get them all moved, and taking deep breaths and reminding myself to relax about it. It's only May! I'm only one person! whose hands actually got to the point the other evening where they hurt, from hoeing and digging.
Good Report: was in the city yesterday for a stress test to get a baseline on my heart health, for my doctor. All's well but I need to get in shape, he tells me; walking 45 minutes a day, four days a week, should do the trick, he says. He's all about prevention, he says.
I'm looking at the great outdoors this morning and thinking shit, how am I going to force myself to go down the road in that furor? Apparently I need to toughen up if I want to live to be an old lady. Which I hope to do, since a card reader told me I would (live to be an old lady) when I was 18 or 19. She was my friend's grandmother and used a plain deck of playing cards. Now, in those days, how old was an old woman? 65? 70? My friend's grandma was in her eighties, if I'm remembering correctly. Anyway, the other things she told me were true, too; they've borne out over the years since.
And now, to work.