Tuesday, February 21, 2006
I'm glad that I'm not expecting visitors any time soon. Between the torrential rains we had that lasted for weeks, getting sick for most of Christmas break, being overly-busy with teaching and graduate work, writing books under contract, and working on my dissertation (anyone want anything else done while I'm at it?), and getting knocked flat by an intestinal virus over this last three-day weekend, the only outdoor chore I've been able to get to is occasionally clipping some grass for the Guinea pigs.
The garden lies in sad neglect, not a good thing in the Pacific Northwest, where the weeds are already romping uncontrolled, like the neighbor's children. The peach tree, the Montmorency cherry, and the roses all need pruned, one post supporting the raspberries needs replaced, and the arch in front, a Big Lots special in enameled green metal tubing, is listing pathetically to the north, bent where some vandal kicked it. The crabapple tree in front of the house needs professional treatment, as its crown is a wild tangle, a bad hair day with lichen. Beside it, the ugly concrete pad of no clear purpose, which I've wanted to get rid of since we moved in eight years ago, is growing a fine crop of moss.
But the crocus are in bloom, as are a few cyclamen and the fragrant Daphne. I will show them off and pretend that the rest of the yard is just resting, waiting patiently for me to tend to it, promising to be good and not run riot in the meantime.
So like the neighbor's children.