I have a set routine that, upon completion of a column, of donning a worn out pair of shorts and a dirt-caked, nearly treadless pair of old sneakers for a few hours of yard work. It’s my time of leisure when I dwell on what level of accomplishment I feel about my finished product and to mull over what topic I might choose to write about for the next installment.
First comes the tag-along behind the self-propelled John Deere lawnmower purchased three years ago at a 12-month 0% interest rate. Paid off within the designated period, it paid for itself in less than a year and saved me hundreds of dollars since then as compared to the expense of having a lawn service do the job.
Next, I weed-whack along the edges of the driveway and the adjoining sidewalk leading up the front door step. Quick and simple, I move on to the back yard, a much smaller area but filled with a variety of bushes and flowering greenery, a pleasant view from the back porch.
Such were the beginnings of my activities last week after completing the column ‘Step-momma freight train brash but good-hearted’. It was also on this day that I finally decided to uproot a number of plants left dead from the hard freezes of this past winter, taking careful notice of the slightest bit of green that indicated they might still survive with a bit of special attention, like spot-watering.
Finalizing the day’s work, I began clipping and trimming barren branches on other surviving foliage, such as a little shaping of the East Palatka holly tree just now showing all kinds of new, green leaves after two years of struggling to reach its potential. Well, I’m right-handed but for some reason, which I’ve come assume was the position of the branch the angle of approach, I did a left-hand snip that resulted in a very audible “Ouch!”
More out of shock than actual pain, I had snipped my right forefinger and a bit of blood spurted to the ground. Lapping up a few tasty drops and rinsing it off with the garden hose but still dripping, it seemed no big deal. I was pretty much done for the day so I gathered the garden tools and took a quick shower with tinges of pink splattering through the webbing of the slip-proof bath mat. There was also a visible piece of skin that flapped a bit when I attempted to bend the finger.
By this time, the hurt was upon me, worsened because the cut was right there, on the underside of the second joint of the finger. So, on went an oversized Band-aid with a bit of Neosporin and a piece of gauze to absorb the excess flow.
So here I was with my forefinger temporarily fixed in a straight-out, stationary position. Of course, friends made comments like, “It’s not nice to point your finger at someone.” And, “What are you going to do, pick your nose?” And my retort, “See my finger, see my thumb, they’re shaped like a gun – your life is done!” Haha!
The unintentionally self-inflicted laceration was of course temporary, healed enough within a few days so I could get back to writing, during which time Sheriff Richard Nugent and his band of undercover agents brought to an end the workings of a network of felonious drug dealers. Way to go, guys! for the success of ‘Operation Oxy-Blues’. Hernando County’s top cop justly called this peddling of pain killers of “epidemic” proportions.
Also during those few days of restricted finger mobility, I came upon a (another) couple of people who had just become entrepreneurs of legitimately prescribed oxycodones – validated by means of MRIs consistent with the need of pain medications – with the sole intention of profiteering at the expense of habitual users and possibly at the cost of their lives.
As for myself, the ‘boo-boo’ wouldn’t have warranted an oxy script, but an MRI done this past year, when I had such pains in my lower back I feared my kidneys were failing, showed I have osteoporosis, not from taking hormones as my doctor had questioned, but as a long-term medical side effect from the radical prostatectomy performed eight years ago.
I could, if I should so desire, seek the assistance of a pain management doctor to supplement my monthly income with a fool’s monthly profit of a thousand dollar or more. But my aches are so few that to this day I wouldn’t know I have a back problem if not for the doctor’s diagnosis. And my conscience is clear, unlike that of others.
(There, this blog entry is complete. So out to the yard I go, the Cutco finger-snipping ‘ratchet pruner’ safely placed in the tool box.)
Showing posts with label flowers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label flowers. Show all posts
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Two Years Onward
Hibiscus with yellow flowers. The red of bottlebrush. The orange of honeysuckle. The white and yellow colors of jasmines. The purple of bougainvillea. The bluebells. A trio of snapdragon colors; yellow, purple, pink. The forever greens of evergreens. The bright deep pink of cactus flowers. Cannas with more pink and yellow flowers. The variegated tints of false bamboo and crotons.
These are the plants that are planted along the backyard fence, just this side of the numerous sand hill pines that stand among other plants and bushes in the Sand Hill Boy Scout Reserve that extends from Cortez Blvd and my home. There are a number of other plants whose names I just can’t remember.
It’s been a busy year of my attempts to adorn my backyard with vegetation that will eventually highlight the sights of visitors’ and mine own eyes. And I do mean eventually.
It’s been an arduous journey to rid the full expanse of the privacy fence along the width of the backyard, a large area some 70 feet by 10 feet that the subcontractors of Mr. Adams failed to place a few pallets of sod. The ground had been cleared as the plot of land was being prepared for resale by an investor, with an 1860-sq foot home set back from the road, but sand was left where blades of grass should have grown. The sprinkler system was misplaced as was the missing bahia.
A lot of time, sweat, digging and uprooting of weeds, and gallons of vegetation killer has been spent in preparation of whatever whim, size and expense of greenery I would decide to plant. And plant I did. Still, at this point, there are very few trees. An East Palatka holly, which will at some point have bunches of red berries that will attract a flock of birds at whatever harvest time they choose, and a non-baring fruit fig are the only trees have been introduced to the property.
The bluebells are abundant with their trumpets of purple-hewed flowers. The cannas have been quick-rooters with a continuous bloom of colors fulfilling my expectations of pleasant views.
The front of the house has a well-maintained rock garden. The roadside has a wide swath of cleared sand with a number of arborvitae and, here I go again, plants whose names I don’t remember. There’s also an open pit close to the sidewalk that was carefully bordered with “decorative” cement castings. At some point I will find the right kind of tree acceptable to my standards of shade. It’s right next to a sprinkler head, positioned perfectly for an ever-flowing fountain – no way, my friend; water is more precious to the ground than wasteful evaporation.
With slight patience I await the time when these vines and plants have my expectations of adornment. While I was gone for three weeks, they were left with the harsh weather conditions of drought, still alive but looking as though they were on their last root of survival. This was not good but the lack of moisture and the heat of days also kept weeds from proliferating the clearings.
Eventually is an often-used word of future goals and particularly applies to the growth of vegetation.
What? Maybe two years from now the vines will along the back fence will meld together with the lush of green and colorful flowers? Maybe the same time period for the bushes to flourish and fill in the garden where it now appears to be sparse and too barren?
What? Maybe two years until the housing market regains a sensible, realistic market-driven growth period. Maybe two years until I can conceivably consider my options to move out of Spring Hill, out of Hernando County and out of Florida. As a friend had gifted me with a black and white, simply framed caricature of people leisurely basking in the yellow sun of a California day with words that proclaimed “Another day in paradise”, so I may depart this State Down-under. A poorly-governed State, a County with little insight of futures past, workforces dependent on simpletons, an elderly haven no longer within the means of retirees, a region sure to be plummeted with increasingly destructive hurricanes, and what is becoming a land meant for those with fortunes: causes for concern for my security and happiness in these waning years on this planet Earth, hopefully long before I’m running on empty.
So, there’s plenty of time to tidy the house. Minor settlement cracks to fill and hide. A bit of touch up paint here and there – “there” being primary along the baseboards where dust collects, where it’s not easily de-clustered, where a few brush strokes will cover what would turn a white glove with shades of gray.
Two years for my fortune cookie to come to reality, when I “will be at the height of your career”. Two years? I don’t know what that career might be; it has to be something more than working for phone companies for half my life, leaving me with a pension at a quarter of my ending pay. The company-contributed 401(k) was the best route to achieving a minimum degree of financial security (if there ever will be). And yet, as hard as I tried, others in my same age bracket couldn’t be prompted to use common sense. Paycheck deduction makes you budget what’s in hand.
Two years for another recent fortune cookie to fulfill it’s claim that “An alien of some sort will be appearing to you shortly!” Oh, really? If it’s the illegal type then it’s the sort that won’t speak English. Or maybe the Lotto will supply me with funds that are alien to my pocketbook. I might have a better chance that E.T. will sweep me from this slowly polluting, quickly heating planet and take me to heights and sights as I have never seen before!
These are the plants that are planted along the backyard fence, just this side of the numerous sand hill pines that stand among other plants and bushes in the Sand Hill Boy Scout Reserve that extends from Cortez Blvd and my home. There are a number of other plants whose names I just can’t remember.
It’s been a busy year of my attempts to adorn my backyard with vegetation that will eventually highlight the sights of visitors’ and mine own eyes. And I do mean eventually.
It’s been an arduous journey to rid the full expanse of the privacy fence along the width of the backyard, a large area some 70 feet by 10 feet that the subcontractors of Mr. Adams failed to place a few pallets of sod. The ground had been cleared as the plot of land was being prepared for resale by an investor, with an 1860-sq foot home set back from the road, but sand was left where blades of grass should have grown. The sprinkler system was misplaced as was the missing bahia.
A lot of time, sweat, digging and uprooting of weeds, and gallons of vegetation killer has been spent in preparation of whatever whim, size and expense of greenery I would decide to plant. And plant I did. Still, at this point, there are very few trees. An East Palatka holly, which will at some point have bunches of red berries that will attract a flock of birds at whatever harvest time they choose, and a non-baring fruit fig are the only trees have been introduced to the property.
The bluebells are abundant with their trumpets of purple-hewed flowers. The cannas have been quick-rooters with a continuous bloom of colors fulfilling my expectations of pleasant views.
The front of the house has a well-maintained rock garden. The roadside has a wide swath of cleared sand with a number of arborvitae and, here I go again, plants whose names I don’t remember. There’s also an open pit close to the sidewalk that was carefully bordered with “decorative” cement castings. At some point I will find the right kind of tree acceptable to my standards of shade. It’s right next to a sprinkler head, positioned perfectly for an ever-flowing fountain – no way, my friend; water is more precious to the ground than wasteful evaporation.
With slight patience I await the time when these vines and plants have my expectations of adornment. While I was gone for three weeks, they were left with the harsh weather conditions of drought, still alive but looking as though they were on their last root of survival. This was not good but the lack of moisture and the heat of days also kept weeds from proliferating the clearings.
Eventually is an often-used word of future goals and particularly applies to the growth of vegetation.
What? Maybe two years from now the vines will along the back fence will meld together with the lush of green and colorful flowers? Maybe the same time period for the bushes to flourish and fill in the garden where it now appears to be sparse and too barren?
What? Maybe two years until the housing market regains a sensible, realistic market-driven growth period. Maybe two years until I can conceivably consider my options to move out of Spring Hill, out of Hernando County and out of Florida. As a friend had gifted me with a black and white, simply framed caricature of people leisurely basking in the yellow sun of a California day with words that proclaimed “Another day in paradise”, so I may depart this State Down-under. A poorly-governed State, a County with little insight of futures past, workforces dependent on simpletons, an elderly haven no longer within the means of retirees, a region sure to be plummeted with increasingly destructive hurricanes, and what is becoming a land meant for those with fortunes: causes for concern for my security and happiness in these waning years on this planet Earth, hopefully long before I’m running on empty.
So, there’s plenty of time to tidy the house. Minor settlement cracks to fill and hide. A bit of touch up paint here and there – “there” being primary along the baseboards where dust collects, where it’s not easily de-clustered, where a few brush strokes will cover what would turn a white glove with shades of gray.
Two years for my fortune cookie to come to reality, when I “will be at the height of your career”. Two years? I don’t know what that career might be; it has to be something more than working for phone companies for half my life, leaving me with a pension at a quarter of my ending pay. The company-contributed 401(k) was the best route to achieving a minimum degree of financial security (if there ever will be). And yet, as hard as I tried, others in my same age bracket couldn’t be prompted to use common sense. Paycheck deduction makes you budget what’s in hand.
Two years for another recent fortune cookie to fulfill it’s claim that “An alien of some sort will be appearing to you shortly!” Oh, really? If it’s the illegal type then it’s the sort that won’t speak English. Or maybe the Lotto will supply me with funds that are alien to my pocketbook. I might have a better chance that E.T. will sweep me from this slowly polluting, quickly heating planet and take me to heights and sights as I have never seen before!
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