He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds. ~ Psalm 147:3

Archive for the ‘Yard Work’ Category

The Great Outdoors

I finally got my butt in gear and actually did some yard work. The air was cool, just the way I like it. And the sun was shining and the wind was blowing and the birds were singing and the butterflies were fluttering. Corona was not in my world yesterday.

Winter does a number on most yards. The trees are naked, the grass is brown, and everything seems more dead than alive. It’s depressing.

So, it was great being outside giving my flowerbeds a much-needed facelift pulling weeds, and trimming bushes and trees. My back didn’t like it. But I did what I set out to do and I’m proud of myself for that. Usually, I try doing half a dozen things at once creating more work for me and my husband. So, he was proud of me, too.

I’m far from being finished, but I’m making headway, at least. A few weeks ago, when I was feeling depressed and fed up with it all, I told my husband that I’d like to do away with the big natural area in the front yard. Then, the sun came out again and I saw things differently and decided that we put too much work into it to tear it all down. It took hours just to line it with the field rocks we collected. It still isn’t the way I want it, and it’s still a lot of upkeep, but I would miss it if it were gone.

I’ve posted a few pictures of the front yard after I finally gave it a little TLC. We still need to pull a few more weeds and put out pine needles. I haven’t done anything down the driveway, yet. I’m waiting for the Azaleas to quit blooming so hubby can cut them all back. They’ve gotten too big for their britches and I have to trim them constantly.

We were young when we created all these natural areas and more able to take care of them. Now, we’re old and hurt in places we never knew we had. So, it’s rough. But, we’re still hanging in there and doing the best we can till we just can’t do it anymore. And if we decide to stay here, we’ll hire someone else to take care of what we can’t. It’ll probably break the bank but that’s better than breaking our backs.

 

 

Life Ain’t What it’s Cracked Up to be

Dear Diary,

You’re probably tired of my moaning and groaning by now. Well, get over it! I need to vent.

Today, I’m feeling overwhelmed with everything: The house, the yard, old age . . . life. I’m a prisoner in my own house. Can’t be with my family and friends. Can’t go shopping. Can’t go out and eat. Can’t do anything but sit here and twiddle my thumbs. Well, I used to be able to twiddle my thumbs. They hurt too bad, now.

Anyhow. I took the trash down to the road this morning and to my horror, like an invasion from outer space, clumps of green stuff are taking over the yard. My heart fell out and splattered on the ground. I don’t need this on top of everything else that’s falling apart around here.

Like a bludgeoned, half-dead old dog, I crawled back into the house where I wish I had stayed and let hubby take down the trash. He doesn’t see the stuff I see. He wears blindfolds. Maybe I should.

Life isn’t fun for anyone these days since COVID-19 showed its ugly, sneering face. I’d like to kick it where it really hurts and send it back to hell.

It’s getting past ridiculous, now. Kids are out of school driving their parents nuts. Businesses are closed. People are out of work and getting sick and dying and fighting over toilet paper. You’d think the world was full of crazed animals instead of human beings. Whatever happened to loving your neighbor as yourself and doing unto others as you would have them do unto you?

Anyhow, I just thought I’d fill you in on my little world. This is not my first encounter with feeling overwhelmed and it won’t be my last. I know, that in time, things will get back to normal or at least, better than they are. Till then, I don’t have time to sit here boohooing. I’ve got work to do. Lots and lots of work . . .

When a Tree Becomes a Monster

I love trees. And when we moved here, there were none except for a mighty few. So we planted trees. Lots of trees. Everywhere.

Thirty years ago they were just little twigs. Today, they are monsters . . . especially the one planted right beside the house. A Bradford. With giant limbs stretching across our roof and the neighbor’s house and driveway. It’s a nuisance to us and to them. It’s got to come down. In the meantime, Buck is going to cut off as many limbs as he can. But it’s going to take a skilled professional to take it all the way down.

We didn’t plant trees to cut them down. But we were young and dumb and thought all trees were created equal. They’re not. Some trees are better left in the forest, like the Bradford. It may or may not grow in the forest but if it does, that’s where it should stay.


So, my advice to anyone wanting to plant trees,
do your research and find out what to plant and what not to plant. and trust me, a Bradford is one tree you do not want to plant!

 

Life is Tough. It’s Tougher if You’re Old . . .

So, my plan was to help Buck pick up all the limbs in the yard . . . lots and lots of limbs. Big limbs. Little limbs. Way too many limbs for a young person, let alone a shriveled up bag of bones. After thirty minutes of bending and stooping and sweat burning my eyes, I quit!

Not my thing anymore!

Will never be my thing again!

EVER!

I feel like crying.

NO! I feel like cutting down every blasted tree, pulling up every blade of grass and pouring cement!

Then I’ll cry.

A deep, overflowing river.

Long gone are the days of working in the yard from sun up till sundown, jogging twenty miles a week, cleaning the house from top to bottom, and working five days a week. Never again will I run up a flight of stairs, bend over and touch my toes, and press a hundred pounds.

Wait. When did I ever press a hundred pounds?

I’ve never been weak and helpless. I’ve always been able to pull my weight and somebody else’s too. Even as a kid I was strong as an ox. Stubborn as a mule, too. But we won’t go there.

I think you get my drift, especially if you’re where I am at the moment . . . old and tired and frustrated and discouraged and weak and puny and . . .

Stop! The list is getting too long!

When did it happen? When did old age wrap its bony fingers around my neck and choke the life out of me? When did it break my back? When did it chop off my arms and legs?

When I started jogging at thirty-six, I assured myself and everyone that I’d keep on jogging even in my seventies. I stopped at fifty-eight.

One of my many regrets. 

I did take it back up when I was seventy-one. But it was never the same and after my back injury, I had to stop. Even walking makes my back scream. But, occasionally I tell it to shut up and I do it anyway.

So, here I am. Wishing I could do the things I did five years ago and reality laughing like a crazed hyena in my face.

So, back to picking up limbs. Buck finished my job and is mowing, now. He likes to mow. And I’m happy he likes to mow. No. I’m ecstatic he likes to mow. Now, if he just liked doing laundry. And cleaning the house. And taking out the trash . . .

 

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