Friday, January 24, 2020

On the Conveyor Belt of Blood, Sweat and Tears into Eternity

In my youth as a gardener, I relished the heaven sent moment when in years to come, I would look out over my little space of nature surrounding my home and bask in the intoxicating euphoria of a job well done.  A good book paired with a cool drink and shoes tossed to the side, I would be lounging on the chaise with gentle breezes playing with my hair.

A hummingbird hovering for just a moment overhead before darting off to the climbing clematis as an occasional waft of fragrance from summer sweet blossoms tantalizes my nose, surrounded by my perfect park of gardens; I am reaping the fruits of my bare knuckle, bone crunching labor of many years.  It was a beautiful dream…it still is a beautiful dream.

In the beginning, many weeks of many years we removed sheets of flat lake rock, semi-boulders, and filler stones from the area construction sites to build our yard into a reproduction of the surrounding countryside.  A chain-link fence bordered the back yard, and a row of multi-sized rocks was built along the bottom to prevent a flood of epic magnitude sweeping across our yard from the yard behind us as each thunderstorm rolled through.

Thirty years later, after removing a ton of that #$@&%*! rock along the chain-link fence, we have a splendid wood fence with metal posts, and 4x4 cedar posts laying on the ground at the base to prevent those epic floods from reoccurring.

What is left of whatever life I have left is now free of that continual battle of neighboring weeds on a rampage to consume my gardens, and the torture of removing all that abundance day after day until winter takes pity on me.  Of course there’s still the front yard, but let’s try to ignore that thought for another day.

The patio is no longer a war zone of trip hazards.  Rotted wood deck replaced by new and enlarged deck, new wider umbrellas, and FINALLY I have my chaise lounges, although I’m almost too ancient to think they are even remotely comfortable.  If anyone tells me ‘better late than never’, I might become a rabid looney and bite them.

Summers being suffocatingly hotter than hell, next spring or autumn will hopefully, finally see me at least once enjoy a morning on the terrace with my non-caffeinated, no salt, low carb breakfast to contemplate why I ever thought gardening would be the cats pajamas of hobbies.


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