A Good Day in the Garden

Widening the street
It’s a dusty and dirty path to the tree.

I’m having a fun day.

Because as much as I like to think of myself as aging gracefully and fashionably and as much as I wish I like to think of myself as prematurely white-haired; I also like the concept of the eccentric woman who scandalizes the neighborhood with her quirkiness.

There’s a lot of work happening on our street right now.  The preparation for paving, curbs and gutters is longer and will probably be more bothersome than the finishing work of the project.  It’s dusty, dirty, inconvenient and sometimes downright dangerous.

But walking back from the coffee shop this morning I saw a young man with a (can you believe it?) remote-controlled root grinder removing the remains of the beautiful old tree that had been cut down the day before.  Although we hollered and protested the loss of the tree, it was in the path of progress and the city’s right-of-way.  Goodbye tree!

And hello tree mulch.

In the garden
The holes in my wheelbarrow are covered with a plastic bag.

I asked if I could bring my wheelbarrow and collect the beautifully fine dirt and root mix that was being heaped along the street.  “Sure”, he said.  And off I went.

So I’m in my bliss: the aging woman in her floppy hat and torn garden shirt weaving her way through the machinery (and sometimes ducking through the alley) to shovel sawdust.  I may even have convinced the backhoe operator to bring me a load when he finishes work.  We’ll see.

In the meantime, my azaleas and rhodies are loving it.  And I am very satisfied with myself.

Bamboo grape arbor
I want my grapes to vine over the gates. My husband crafted the perfect solution.

Yesterday my husband crafted wonderful grape arbors from the bamboo in the side yard.  Today we’re making a new home for an old friend.  I’ll think of that gorgeous old tree when my shrubs are blooming in the spring.



    • I have learned to let the public library feed my need for books. I have shed myself of the my library of several thousand books and am down to the precious ones that I can’t give up. (Just cleaned out a stack.) I suppose I’ll have a garden of some sorts until I die; even if it is a pot of thyme on the bed table of my nursing home.


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