Thursday, July 9, 2009


I squat, digging out the morning glory, trying to get as much of the white stringy root as I can without morphing into a gopher. It's a temporary fix but chemicals are a no-go for my garden. I notice the buzzing has stopped and I look down and swat as I see the blood thirsty squito on my knee. Kids wail, reminding me that they need weeded too; neglected, lost in the twisted roots of the day, choked for nourishment.

I look up from the blood on my knee and see the van sitting in our yard, hobbled, helpless on the jack. The air still clings to the heat of the day and I stink like a man. A full sand box, piles of rock, stacked hay, and the remaining clothesline post lying on the ground are testament that my masculine scent didn't just come from doing dishes. My sisters and I used to make fun of women who didn't know how to work, or to back up farm equipment; this memory had blown through my thoughts a few hours ago, and now my stench refreshed the recollection.

Again there is quiet, this time it pulls me from my garden and into the seceret plans of my kiddos. I suprise them in their scheme and find; cleaning before they "party big time." We break out the icecream sandwiches instead, and they run back outside to the trampoline. I follow, but stop at the prostate clothesline post, it's bolts sticking up into the air. I can still here the whoosh from the tire as my husband observes, "Guess you didn't see the post," and I wonder if I could still back up a trailer.

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