Tuesday's task oriented completion, (rather than body awareness oriented completion) of a long weeding fest left me with such sore thumbs that I think they conspired to give me a bad cold so I wouldn't go outside again for a few days.
Saturday, we had a professional weeder work magic with the thigh-high wild oats, fox-tails, and thistles that overtook the entire lower portion of the garden. All weeds LOVED the winter rains and begrew themselves with such beauty (if you like the look of them billowing and prickling in the wind), and pride (yes, weeds look proud... and smug too. I can't wait for the summer goat fest eating them all down to the ground in the park just across the road! Why, I even saw one wild grass thumb its nose at me!)
My thumbs, if they had their way, would luxuriate in hot epsom soaks and deep rest each day and stay as far away from garden gloves as they could. They're begging for a paraffin soak they saw in some fancy catalog, but have never tried. I said, maybe.
I promised them that this morning all we needed to do was some straight digging. No pincer grasp required. We're simply putting in earth the Iris rhizomes a friend gave me. And hey, I reminded them, it wasn't so bad breaking up the clay with the pitchfork yesterday, was it? (Grudging shrug from the impossible opposable duo.) And the Dogwood tree looks happy there in the corner of the front yard near Sir Mergatroid Redwood, I reminded them. Maybe YOU can come up with a name for the Dogwood? I encourage my grand digits. Naw, they remind me, when it comes to spoken word, we're all thumbs.
Sigh... What shall we name the Dogwood... Maybe Sir Marvin, after our last fine and noble four-legged friend, Marvin Gardens?
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