The big sky may be grey, but walking beneath it is as breathtaking as ever.
When it looks like this, I put off going outside.
Then I get out there and it’s so beautiful … I breathe the deepest sighs of pleasure … and I wonder why, oh why, do I wait? There is no place I would rather be.
In the mornings, still wearing my housecoat, I stay in the yard, strolling past the flowerbeds, admiring, awed, grateful for the colourful bounty.
Do you do that, Joan, now that you’ve taken more interest in your plantings?
When Bev was here, she drove into the yard and caught me on the lawn tractor for the first time. Her jaw dropped, as I’d told her I hadn’t mowed grass since Mom and Dad lived on their farm. She leapt out of her vehicle and took this picture:
You’ll note the pants tucked into socks — this is to keep ticks out — and my “clown” shoes, as I call them because they’re a bit loose on my feet, have been dog-chewed, and are all stained up from being sprayed with essential oils to repel ticks. Nevertheless they’re the ones I slip into unless I’m getting into Little Green or Big White or Black Mack to go somewhere.
Yep, a fashion plate; that’s me.
*** By the way, certain details of yesterday’s post are absolutely true. There was a worker suffocated in grain in my hometown when I was a child. There was a girl murdered down by the lake, and the village is said to have been named after her. I really do want friendly ghosts, if there are any, to make themselves more obvious in a matter-of-fact way. And in my mid-twenties I had a little mutt named Annie Doodle, a faithful and loving companion.
Talk about using facts to fuel fiction!