Our garden looks a mess. Should I quit my perfectly good and well paying job to stay home, garden, play with the cats, and walk the dog? Gentle reader, do tell. I know the answer but my mind rebels. A sick day might sooth the weary soul. Hmm. Or I could really fake it and make it two.
Middle class is not what I thought it would be and poor ole Lumberton has shrunk up like the imaginary town in "Cars". For a solid year after the movie I would cry to the soulful song "Our Town" sung by our own James Taylor. I still listen to it when I'm feeling sorry for our southeastern NC tiny towns that have lost mostly every thing but criminals, attorneys, teachers and preachers. If we didn't have poverty we wouldn't have a hospital and those jobs would go aways too. Thank God for Obama's stimulus money: they finally paved the streets in my neighborhood so the cars don't go rattling by anymore. Now, they go "swooOOOoooosh".
This Saturday morning ramble is a sad procrastination. In all fairness, it is too dewy to get out there and do the dastardly and pull out half dead tomatoes, beans and zinnias with still pretty flowers.
...just in via text: Joy The Neighbor's Silkie just laid her first egg. And it's a beauty folks! Now I'm all moody again, because I know if I can't keep up with the garden, no way I can do chickens. Ah, the plight of the working class urban gardner. Pish.