I haven’t found someone to do the hand-weeding yet. I’m not sure if it’s genuinely too late in the season to schedule such things, or if I’m scaring people off by explaining why I’m not doing it myself.

It’s not that I’m embarrassed about it and want reassurance.

Okay, I’m probably lying. Neither my husband nor I are comfortable hiring people to do things for us, even when reality puts up a billboard questioning our sanity. He grew up actively avoiding yardwork, whereas I was prohibited from using anything that could be considered “dangerous.” The quotes are intentional because ‘dangerous’ was being scoped by people who were religiously opposed to babyproofing.¹ For example, it was my job to remove dead vermin from sprung mousetraps, but I wasn’t allowed to set the traps. I was also tasked with cleaning wire tangles and removing pulped frog skeletons from the lawn mower that I wasn’t permitted to operate.

To be fair, the one and only time I used a riding lawnmower, I did take out a fence, and I’ve had some ah, weird bicycle accidents.

I haven’t ridden a bike, except for a stationary one in a gym, since one sunny morning in 1994. I was running late for work on the Mizzou Campus, cutting across the brick plaza beside Ellis Library, when my bike suddenly stopped moving. I went flying into one of the trees that used to be in the concrete planters there. I’m fuzzy on how I got from being sprawled upside down against the tree to collecting my bike and walking it to work, but I do remember locking it in the rack outside Townshend Hall and Leaving It There to Die Or Be Impounded To A Good Home.

Oh, sure, it wasn’t the bike’s fault, just like it wasn’t to blame for me a) crashing into the trunk of a parked car after being surprised by a dog lunging for my back tire, b) cracking my wrist by grabbing one of the iron fences on the edge of the Stephens College campus while I was speeding downhill and realized I couldn’t stop before hitting the intersection with Broadway, or c) snapping my helmet in two when I miscalculated a turn while riding down one of the ramps at Brady Commons.

That said, though, our relationship was clearly cursed, so it had to end.

I’ve gotten a lot of recommendations to try Ivy Block or IvyX, so I’m going to give that a whirl before giving up on outdoor gardening entirely.

What’s one more layer of protection that I didn’t seem to need when I was a kid?

1. Instead of moving the laundry detergent out from under the bathroom sink the first time I drank Downy as a toddler, or the second time, or possibly the third time, my mother and grandmother chose to keep the stuff there so I could eventually learn my lesson by trying to wash my hair with Woolite. I got it into my eyes, wasn’t happy about that, and started avoiding everything under the sink, including the apparently tasty tasty Downy. As a side bonus, I wasn’t blinded, and I survived to teach my sister that she needed to Not Do What I Did WITHOUT THINKING SHE JUST HAD TO LEARN FROM EXPERIENCE.
   
   Why yes, I’m Gen X. How did you guess? ↩︎

(Shout out to Mele Gaddini for unblocking me from writing this blog post by sharing her struggles with imaginary chickens. Rather, the struggles with a lack of them!)

As I’ve been saying for a while, the local wildlife probably wishes we’d commit to the farmette part of our farmette-with-Internet and buy some chickens already. I’ve begun to suspect that the local flora’s listening to their discussions. Since the vegetation isn’t more scared of me than I am of it¹, it’s been doling out encouragement in its usual nefarious mysterious plant-y way.

Continue reading “A Lack of Chickens” →

Monday would have been my mother’s 76th birthday.

I’m embarrassed to say that I didn’t automatically remember her birthday. I have a new OB/GYN, and the realization dawned on me while she and I were reviewing my family history during my first visit. My doctors are generally horrified when they notice that Mom died when she was 66, and yeah, I routinely add to that horror by pointing out that her sister didn’t even make it to 60.¹

I’ve just started the late fifties to sixties gauntlet.

I am in much better health than my aunt was when she was my age, though the kidney stone I got last year did scare the crap out of me for a while² since she did pass due to renal failure. I am also healthier than my mother was; I’ve never smoked, and I added ‘cardiac health’ to my routine of regular checkups years ago because I would really rather have some warning of a potential heart problem in advance than having to deal with the aftermath of having experienced one. The regular checkups have also helped me get a handle on some issues that I could do something about before they became things that required medications to manage.

Not that I’m opposed to medications if they’re necessary. I’d just prefer it if they weren’t, for as long as possible. Like antihistamines, augh. Two weekends ago, I promised myself that I’ll make a habit of taking the damn things every day that I plan to go dig in the dirt this year instead of suffering for weeks or, worse, winding up in my dermatologist’s office because I have a histamine reaction I can’t get under control without help.

So far, I’ve kept that promise! The side effect of keeping that promise, however, is that it deprives me of a ready-made excuse to lounge on the couch and doomscroll instead of gardening. Eh, making myself do things I enjoy is for my own good, right?

1. On the bright side, I’ve had blood relatives who lived deep into their nineties and even a little beyond. Many of these allegedly had most of their marbles up until the end. However, the truth of this might have been obscured by their pre-existing mental aberrations and/or their storytellers’ magical thinking. ↩︎
2. …until the cause was pinned to excessive dehydration triggered by mono and COVID. ↩︎