A chap to call our own. (A Friday in early May)

In a few weeks we will be gone.

Our time at the place we call “home” seems to have flown, consumed almost entirely it seems by taking care of the sorts of business that once we thought was solely in the domain of those we considered to be old.  A never ending round of repairs involving teeth, and eyes and ears and actual re-arrangement of body parts has been mashed into the slots we have left in our lives after chasing our little ones, who are just far enough away so that some weeks we wonder whether we actually live on that six lane highway. 

It’s not that there hasn’t been progress on the house, there has, but the crescendo happened last year, now it’s down to something less than a dull roar, an endless list headed “things to do” not unlike the one on the boat, where the invisible sub-title happily reads “but probably not just yet.”   The garden of course did suffer from neglect while all this otherwise occupied-ness was taking place, and the consequences of all that body rearranging made their presence felt.

Rather than “bust a gut, to use a euphemism that in a manner of speaking had already been done, through a small miracle we found our John, who seems just as happy to cut and snip and chainsaw his way through our tiny jungle as we are to watch him happily doing it.  

What a joy it will be to return in six months to a garden in better shape than it was when we left!