The first cut is the deepest
My in-house campaign, for a “No-Mow May” is at an end. Three weeks, isn’t bad. The Big Green Machine, kept away from the world since last autumn, was rolled out from the garabge and allowed to drive in random circles and other forms. Until every little star was gone. That’s right. They weren’t weeds. They were a noble part of the Aster family. Given a bit more time, we could have turned the lawn into a yellow study in uncontrolled growth. No, not weeds.
The idea that the Big Green machine could sit for almost half a year and then “turn over” is a tribute to the manufacturer. We did have to pump up a tire, but that’s quite separate from the mechanical ruggedness. So sorry, bees and other lovers of the common dancelion (it’s not a weed!)
We had walkers in the neighbourhood, this afternoon. Stopped by for a pee-pause. I should get out and walk around, but without a guiding arm, I might be gone for hours. Don’t want anyone filing a police report that I’m wandering again.
Back into my bread. I know; not the most balanced diet, but I pretend that I am a soldier in the foreign wars, and the daily rations are reduced. Mind, their bread was probably not as “pure and white” as mine. And I have access to jam in a jar, or cheese in a drawer, if I want to add flavour to the plate. Warm bread. Another comfort food. Pour a tall glass of cow-juice, and pretend that I’m just a growing lad, in from a long afternoon outside. Playing ball. Or wandering the woodlot. Pretend, at its best.
Our loaner dog is off to the other side. Spent two afternoons with the main mutt and I, and there was no conflict reported, other than a need for a longer couch.
