You ask where have I been. Friday, May something or other. The day before Doomsday. I decide it's high time I take on the Feral Half Acre. Three Ponds. A Small Patio set with criss-cross pavers, last seen in 2005, before I lost my 3-D vision, before I decided it's okay to fall on my arse on a weekly basis, even in front of people while doing physical feats of derring do, or, feats with potentially silly outcomes, i.e., gardening. I, singlehandedly, will clear brush. If our fearless president, who knows nothing about farming or government or social philosophy can do it, I, who know nothing about farming, and a little about government and much more about social philosophy, can do it. However, it turns out, the key element IS knowing something about farming, and not social philosophy. So, the president ought to continue to clear brush while I should stay indoors and deal with social philosophy, more likely.
To continue, armed with little more than garden shears, I cut down football fieldsful of wisteria vines, kudzu, feckless weeds, needless plants that did ask my permission to live amongst the herbs and roses in my lovely backyard secret garden. The remainder, I reason, will be a fig tree, several well-trimmed boxwood hedges, the pink roses, the red roses, the irises, the pickerels in the ponds, the white rose amongst the daylilies, the daylilies of course, and what forgotten fragrant hyacinths may have survived my hacking and general purge of several generations of hurricanesworth of immigrant usurpers of my precious grounds.
However, in my absence, a feverish virus has stealthily crept into the in-betweens and everywhere and lashed every open space of MY body. (See above photos, which should be studied by all who seek to cultivate one's garden BEFOREHAND) While I have been cutting the known vines, stems, roots, leaves, bulbs, clumps and other nasties away, these newcomers have been pinching and poking at my arms, neck, and face. My pants are loose, so I hitch them up and so, whatever is on my gloves goes onto my waist! My shoes come untied, so I yank off my gloves and re-tie them and so, my hands get all sticky with some godawful stuff that turns out to be urushiol oil! And then I get it on my other body parts (modesty forbids). All this blooms over the next few days and it looks approximately like this: http://www.poison-ivy.org/rash/index.htm Omigod!!!!!!
The test of physical vanity now follows. It turns out I care not a fig if anyone sees me as a red patchy person. I am truly ugly now, a mess of red weepy bubbles and sores, a leper, a veritable outcast, someone who should be coated in rags and what is worse, I have developed a limp, from falling down a stair. Not stairs, but a little bitsy stair. All my considerable weight on one foot, smushing down on a few little bones and it really hurts, so I limp. Should I get a cane? I have some nice ones. But no, I limp, like some medieval wanderer. Perhaps I should develop a croaking voice, or wear a hood. Exude a bad smell, like wormwood, or anise. Or garlic! Well, this is a bit overdramatic. Best to just take the prednisone, slosh on the cortisone cream and be done with it.
The good news is that the teas from China and Africa will arrive in about a month to console me!
