It’s a writer’s disease symptom: looking for a way to turn every event in your life into a blog post or chapter in the next book. You know the deal: “I’m putting that in the next book. Thanks!” Yeah, how about you just keep quiet instead when someone manages to hit themselves in the face with a dead carp.
This morning was one of those mornings. I had spectacular dreams involving foreign lands, ports I’d visited 30 years ago, people I know today, and places I plan to visit down the road. All of it is either evidence of a brilliantly creative mind or psychosis so profound that I should be medicated right away. I won’t be going into that dream, it would scare or bore you.
I hopped out of bed (the 50+ equivalent, anyway) and went right out to dig some holes in the yard. No, not looking for pirate treasure. Getting ready for a rhubarb plant transplant from a friend. That’s excitement in my life.
I dug around in the designated areas, got it the right size and marveled at the rich earth. Lots of black dirt, worms, dog doody. While that was surely bait for some kind of post, I just couldn’t muster the enthusiasm about the history of that soil, the vegetables that have grown there, the dogs that fertilized the dirt, etc. It was just a pair of holes that were dug carefully so as not to injure the knees (tore a meniscus doing this a few years ago) or back. Wearing winter gloves because my work gloves are too hard to find.
Then we scooped dog poop. Stormy wasn’t very helpful with this task. But I did pat myself on the back for using my snow blower to vaporize the majority of the mess this winter. You wait until the poo freezes, then it snows, then you take your 10 horse snow blower to move it out of the backyard you own to the one of your neighbor. It lands in a fine spray of atomized dog poop and snow. Perfect fertilizer. My yard was almost poop free this spring as a result. Man, am I smart or what?
Finishing the project, the garbage truck arrived. See yesterday’s post for an idea of how exciting that event can be. I went to the fence and watched while she had her fit. It was kind of fun. She didn’t know what to do, if it was okay, or what. After a moment or two she merely resumed her meltdown and had a great time. That’s my girl.
Finally I put the tools in the corner and came inside to a lovely cup of Cafe Bustelo. Cup in hand, I sat here to write something profound. I think I’ve failed. But, as any writer will tell you, once you hit the word count for the day you’re a success in your own mind. 507. Done.
Have a great Wednesday. I’ll be back tomorrow. With new rhubarb plants.