May 13, 2008


Naw, not genealogical roots, an interest of mine, but grass roots, tree roots, root stock. A former neighbor, just before her death, called me "the farmer of Gresham Place." Lord, if she could have seen me yesterday. Is that why you are so sore, Missy? Sore is an understatement and more pain is coming.

I planted roses along the fence a few weeks ago. That area is really too shady for them so the bright idea light went off: Move them to the front. Don't you just hate it when "bright idea" equals "hard work"? Boys and girls, what seemed to be a no-brainer, a quick job (after all, the ground is water-logged), turned into a living nightmare. Have I mentioned that I am too old for this?

A gorgeous, cool day. Just right for mowing, trimming, planting. Plus, I would have a full day to recover before reporting to Wally World. R I G H T! That slight rise at the front of the yard was almost my undoing. Armed with gloves, shovel, spade, flats of petunias, and other equipment, I struck out. Holy moley! The grass roots were tougher than steel mesh. And we won't talk about all the tree roots from the magnificent magnolia. Five hours later, I was still trying to dig out that area. I could see this in my mind. Rose bushes at the back; petunias in the front; vinca vine cascading over the wall. R I G H T! If there is one thing about me that everybody knows, it is that I just hate to give up! But I was close. The back was hurting and blisters forming. Lord, what happened to all those itinerant people who wandered back and forth last year asking for work?

Well, boys and girls, the Lord does answer prayers. "Grandma, can you use some help?" Could I ever! He told me that he would be right back but I would have to drop him at his house. Uh-oh! I don't know him. I don't know where he lives. And there is no one I can call to ride with me. Uh-oh! True to his word, he was back in a flash. I had to run to the bank to get his cash thinking all the way that I needed to call brother, son, SF, somebody to let them know what was happening in case I disappeared or turned up dead. By the time I got back, he had cleared the area. That man was a God-send.

Told me not to use that "old man" to do any work. What old man? "Old man, works with a crew. Can't think of his name." Deacon Williams? Turns out the good deacon is ill and, contrary to his claim of doing "quantity work," is also known to do shoddy work. Well, well.

Wayne has proclaimed himself to be my handyman. Going to take care of my yard, my car, yada yada. Off we go. Through town and out Rte. 19. Pass a beautiful house with a large herd of cattle and horses. Black-owned. "Miz Liddy is a powerful woman." Pull up to his house in a little sub-division that is off of the beaten track. Isn't everything? He was lining up jobs. Told him I'd call when I was ready but that I would be calling. Yes, indeedy.

Managed to get the roses transplanted and the petunias in. The sun was setting--missed Dancing With the Stars. Darn. I'm always at work when that comes on! Even fixed up the planters with petunias and vinca. Maybe they will last this year. Need to buy mulch. Need to break up the ground in front of the porch for the azaleas. Need to mow. Need to move the displaced sod to the side where Big Boy and Cindy are steadily destroying the yard. Need to transplant the irises that rode down from D.C. Need to. Need to. Need to call Wayne because sistah-girl is SORE!

The azalea bush in the back is in bloom, as is the rose bush. And the magnolias are coming into bloom. Robert Browning says it best:

The year's at the spring
And day's at the morn;
Morning's at seven;
The hillside's dew-pearled;
The lark's on the wing;
The snail's on the thorn;
God's in his heaven--
All's right with the world.

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