Last week I wrote about our snow day. This being the Pacific Northwest, snow has melted into the distant past. Yesterday we had a sun day.
Spring…summer...I pine for warm temps and clear blue skies above.
OMG…the sky took on the hue of a robin’s egg; thawed frogs croaked in the reeds around the pond; birds went nuts with their swooping and chirping and kamikaze attempts to murder everything that approached their potential mates. And I had five snow drops thrusting their blooms upward through the rotting leaves.
Spring at last! I could weep.
Autumn and winter have fallen away. The ground is only a little squooshy with last week’s flood-level precipitation. All is forgotten as Sol makes a running break through the clouds and the sunshine fans go berserk.
So me and the dogs dash into our crazy summer thing. Suddenly I became aware of the 47 million weeds thriving and multiplying in my flowerbeds. And the rugosa rose had somehow achieved an eight-foot height. And the river birch had dropped a deluge of broken branches across the lawn. I began to weed. And prune. And play pick-up sticks.
First, weeding on my hands and knees. My body let me know rather quickly that I am out of genuflecting practice. But I persevered. The joy of plucking all those green invaders sustained me. Ignoring the warning spasms of pain in arms, back and legs, I kept digging. Weed by weed, I filled my orange bucket, all the while chortling like a madwoman.
Sophie, the horse in the next field kicked up her heels and dashed about, so the dogs kicked up their paws and raced her – across my semi-prone body. When I shrieked, they passed long enough to thrust muddy noses into my face. And then they were off…knocking over me and my weed bucket. Sprouts resettled into the dirt. Spiders scuttled over my hands. I sat in the mud and sobbed.
Enough of those weeds. The rose. I had to prune the herbaceous beast that was expanding into total yard domination. The once cute and two-foot rugosa (sturdy enough to survive in Siberia!) had long since thrust out dozens of sun-sucking canes. This rose is a survivor – it has more thorns than bark. Strong thorns that pierce skin. Tweezers are now standard garden equipment.
Two hours later, the dogs are still charging around after birds and racing Sophie. I am considering signing onto a freak show as the human porcupine. But I have a three foot stack of prickle canes and nearly half the-rose-that-ate-Snohomish is cut to waist height. Just one more dedicated day and I’ll have tamed it. Hah!
All that is left on my personal to-do list is to play pick-up sticks across the property. My river birch is a three-trunk giant with lots and lots of twigs and branches. A gentle breeze sheds sticks across grass like the dogs shed across my rug. I fill one garbage can; I am halfway through a second when my back spasms.
Immobilized, I scream in pure agony. The dogs think we are playing and so they frolic, licking and leaping. One thump and I am down in the mud. Whimpering, I use the side of the garbage can to haul myself vertical. Without the breath to curse, I ignore that my weight tipped the can over and all the twigs and branches have been reflung across the landscape.
Back in the house, unable to move, mud-splattered dogs panting happily at my feet, I wonder how long it will be before it snows again.
I’ve had it with good weather.