Living behind the high school in Seymour for 10 years — where homes are for doctors and business owners — we kept the yard pretty darned nice. We didn’t have a crew come and mow twice a week and manicure every bush and pluck every blade of grass, but instead, we did it.
Twice per week, I went out with the trusty weed eater and made perfectly straight lines down both sides of the driveway and along the front of the property where it connected with the street. The shrubs were trimmed clean and neat. We mowed at least twice a week. Landscaping had mulch, and flowering baskets adorned the front porch complete with chairs we never sat in.
But now I live in a barn in Crothersville.
On Tuesday afternoon, I trimmed around most everything… we have miles of fencing. (I weed eated again yesterday and could do twice that much more today.) Next… after picking up dog poop… I push mowed the dog part with a 3-wheeled lawn mower. One of the wheels broke lose and turned in, but I kept mowing. I thought I’d have a heart attack pushing the darned thing, but I got ‘er done.
Then I got the riding mower stuck right out by the road. I was so tired and over it, I let it set there until Perry could move it back into the garage.
The landscaping — long neglected — is making me crazy. I’ve planted flowering bushes and hostas, but I’ve yet to put edging and rock or mulch in that area. I bitched at Perry last night about spraying weed killer aggressively and not just hit and miss — this came after I had to mow parts of our gravel driveway. 🙁
This isn’t Lasher Drive and I need to let go of that mindset.
I have honeysuckle and blackberry bushes growing in the backyard. I have a soybean field next door and not a fancy house with an inground pool. The ditch next to the road doesn’t need to be immaculate and 500S doesn’t get a street sweeper on the regular… or ever.
It’s time to back up on worrying so much about the yard… it’s the COUNTRY.
Today I Learned: In the 17th century, when coffee had made its way to Europe, some people reacted to it with suspicion or fear, calling it the “bitter invention of Satan.” In 1615, the clergy in Venice asked Pope Clement VIII to intervene. He found the drink so satisfying that he gave it approval.