I went on a bender today and no liquids were
involved except water from the hose. I bent to the ground over a million
times—picking up stuff for the annual burn pile. Once or twice a year my
husband and I gather logs, brush, weeds, sticks, dead snails and letters from
the IRS and create a pile of stuff in the back yard a wee bit taller than our
house. Add gasoline to the recipe and poof, we have lift-off. Not really, but
my face looks well-done and my hair is still smoking.
So I’m guarding the fire
all day, adding stuff to it, moving it around and blinking smoke out of my eyes
while Art is driving his tractor-mower in circles all over the property like a
kid learning to drive--learning to drive over the top of my daffodils, through
the fence, into a lamp post, back up to the garden and through the tulips.
All
that while I bend like a wooden puppet, picking up branches and weeds until all
fluids have drained into the top of my brain cavity and standing up straight
makes me dizzy. Could be worse—could live on the east coast and dig snow all
day.
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