Tag Archives: farm

On Weeding…

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Call me crazy, but I like to weed.  On my own terms, but still…

A fine crop of weeds had grown up thanks to a fair amount of rain while I was in Wisconsin.  So the other evening, I pulled my camp stool out from under the house, and I got my weed digging tool, and I started in on the weeds that I had actually mowed earlier in the day.  They were thriving between the flagstones of my front path.

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Okay, so perfect weeding conditions:  clear and sunny, a nice breeze, temps hovering mid-seventies, ground nice and soaked, but not muddy.  I had nearly all of those requirements met, and I got going.

Weeding is a mindless task.  It is quiet, except for the sounds of Mother Nature, and maybe a car or two passing by.  It is a job that demonstrates clearly the worker’s  accomplishment. 

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It is an accomplishment that lasts, unlike dusting or making a meal.  The dust reappears almost within minutes.   The meal that took an hour or more to make is gone in twenty minutes, with a pile of dishes, pots and pans, and utensils left to be dealt with.  Weeding lasts, well, at least a week.

I like to think when I weed.  I think of all kinds of things…what materials to use with my tutoring kid, what my folks at the farm might be doing at that moment, upcoming visits from friends, what to wear tomorrow, what to eat for supper.

I weeded my front flagstone path.  I had most of my perfect conditions.  I could see clear results.  Call me crazy, but I like to weed.

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(The green that remains is actually sedum, which I WANT to grow between the flags.)

Good morning, Farm…

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My folks and some siblings live in a square mile of each other right in the midst of southern Wisconsin farm country.  It is beautiful here, and each time I visit, I feel like I have come home.  It hasn’t always been my “home,” but like all homes, it is the people, not the place.  So when one of my sisters drives all the way to NC to pick me and my little dog, Hattie, up, and bring us for our yearly visit, I am literally transported.

People ask me, “What do you do in Wisconsin for seven weeks?”  Well, I just live.  And try to make up for lost time.  The time lost was the years of childhood I missed with these people, but that doesn’t matter anymore.  It is the time I was isolated from them by a husband that was jealous of my love for my sisters and brothers here, the fear he had that I would leave him to come live with them, and the idea that they were more than he was.  Mostly he was on to something, but that doesn’t matter anymore, either.  We have now.

This is what we do…roam thrift shops, consignment stores, auctions, and Antique Malls looking for the perfect bargain; go to farmer’s markets; get our toes done; rake hay for the new cows that were not here last year; play flower shop; drink wine; solve the problems of the world; laugh hysterically; eat Dad’s cooking; worship together; weed; plant flowers and vegetables; go to movies; dog train; have Saturday evening get togethers with Margaritas and cheese and crackers; sew some project or several;  squeeze in on a sofa to watch Dancing With and Batchelor-whatever; talk non-stop; organize and reorganize cupboards and closets, and maybe this year a section of an attic;  plant geraniums at the cemetery; go rummaging around a barn;maybe go shooting; and pretty much, laugh a lot.

I am lucky enough to have several homes…the ones with the people I left back in AZ, my tiny house in my darling neighborhood in NC with my family there, and the Farm.  No matter where I am, what I do is just live.  It’s a lot of living.