Long Time Gone

That's the name of one of my [not-yet-blooming] Irises. And my acknowledgment that  you're right, it has been awhile.

No garden talk here, just talk. So what's up?

Easter Sunday, 2013 — and what an Easter it is!  Sunshine and warm air, last week's snow and thundersleet just distant memories. Yet here I am, planted on the couch – hey, there's a garden reference for you – waiting for a roast to cook in the Crockpot and Scalloped Potatoes to bake in the oven. I am in the midst of a self-imposed quarantine from the outside world. Three weeks post toe surgery, I am finding it more comfortable being here than there. Pain has given way to the discomfort of clunking around in a surgical shoe that extends an inch beyond my foot. At least the pin sticking out the front of my toe is topped with a Kelly Green knob, so….my color. Besides, I like it here.

Or do I? Easter Bunny Sarah dropped by after church to deliver candy and good wishes. Walking her out, I was struck by the gorgeousness of the day and heard the garden calling my name. I told it to shut up, then threw it a bone by pulling a few dead leaves off the potted  plants at the foot of my stairs. There, Garden, are you happy? It was hard, but I let common sense have this one.

In my last post I blamed some excruciating foot pain on the wearing of flats.  Forget that. It was the wearing of two screws surgically implanted in the 1990s, like Wilkinson Sword Blades. They were way too long to perform their intended task and in time became instruments of torture.

  

Did I mention that I am not a fast writer? The day is winding down, I am ignoring the TV prediction of snow flurries tomorrow and giving thanks for today. Except for one small glitch it was a good one. I had to abandon my plan to DO something about this dirty house, today, period. But it was not meant to be. After Sarah left I decided to kick off the big housecleaning event by finishing the dishes soaking in the sink. Start small, I say.

Remember, Family, when I ditched every piece of glassware in the house because I break things?  Remember last year when I bought a few sturdy yet attractive drinking glasses, on the theory that I could live like a civilized human being as well as the next guy?  No. I can't. Next year remember that on March 31, 2013, I stuck my hand into the dishwater, got stabbed by two extremely pointy shards of broken glass, bled for hours and still hurt.

Nighty-nite, and do as I say not as I do.