Each new season can be a quirky, moody little affair, that at times falls out of synch with my resident disposition, though I venture to say most seasons would argue it’s the other way around. Whatever the case, certainly spring has done its part to awaken nature, feverishly showing off with record-breaking temperatures, burgeoning boughs and halcyon days once reserved for August, but its emergence has also heralded a reflective time for me regarding the place I call home and the face the stares back at me in the selfie or mirror, as the case may be.
I’ve found myself doing less talking and just plain doing less, not sure what that’s about, though I suspect some would welcome the change in my first lament. And dare I say in the mojo department, my “mo” is not speaking to my “jo” as of late. Perhaps spring is the wake-up call that the next six months will be very busy, that my time will be filled from sun-up to sundown. I like that projection, but for now I have to gather my thoughts about how to approach it. In my head, I’m 26, but in my ankles, feet, hips, knees and back, I’m entering the unfamiliar territory of aches and pains. I never thought a few more years around the sun would ever play a limiting role in my life (said the man standing on the precipice of geezerdom).
Now please don’t worry; I’m fine, my health is fine, but now it just takes some serious conversations with myself to convince my lazy-boy-lounging tuckus that weeding is worthwhile; coop cleaning, necessary; orchard pruning, mandatory; and watering, a therapeutic gift. The beginning of the farming season is always overwhelming. There are seeds to plant, fields to prepare and winter cleanup to tackle, oh yes, and bulldog butt rubs to administer. Blackberry brambles grow at breakneck speed, while Scotch broom and thistles stake claims wherever their seeds come to rest. Moss prefers my roof as a place to roost, and winter’s winds have downed a few trees teasing me with the possibility of some serious BTUs, should I ever restart my chainsaw. My greenhouse needs a thorough cleaning and some of its contents need pitching and composting. The inside of the house cries, “Remember me, and that time-saving tool called a vacuum?” (I answer, “Vaguely.”)
So do I have a point here? Oh, I don’t know. I don’t want to complain, nor do I wish to whine, but when did the guy with the white hair and bald spot move into my house? He’s gets distracted easily and sure takes a lot of breaks. Just sayin’…