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I can’t even say how much I wanted it to be raining today when I got home from yoga. I’m about to be gone for the better part of three weeks, and, after mostly putting off yard work for the past month (or three), there are things that need to be done. I don’t want to do them.

Like my garden. It’s a train wreck. And it will stay that way for now.


Like putting away the hoses that I did at least gather up a week or three ago and left semi-coiled in the wheelbarrow that I need to clean out aforementioned train wreck. I needed a new place for the hoses because I need to clean out the shed where they sprawl on the floor all winter like so many vipers in takeover mode. I despise hoses. Can they not make one that ordinary humans can wind into a factory coil?And then there are the two I can’t get apart.


And maybe someday I will finish getting the 55-year-old junk out from under the shed. Though to be fair to myself, there is far less driftwood, beach rocks, and sea shells than there once was.



But what about the pot of Mt. St. Helens’ ash? Why oh why oh?


Like clean the skylights that the yet-to-be-finished house renovation has opened up. Whoa! That’s an improvement. I can see clearly now.


But once on the roof, of course, I noticed it needed to be cleaned off. Again. There are seven downspouts that get blocked. A couple of weeks ago—or three—it was maple tree debris; now the shedding fir trees. The fallout lines nearly the entire perimeter of the roof, leaving standing water along same when it rains. And surely it will. Rain. Again. Someday.


The good news is between the monthly roof cleaning and frequent hiking in high places, I have conquered my aeroachrophobia.


Like turn off the sprinkler system for winter. I found one of the shutoff valves buried under eight inches of dirt that had to be dug out, thanks to the friggin’ mole. There’s a hole in the side at the bottom. I put in some plastic mesh in hopes that next spring it won’t be filled up again.



Four jobs done. Not even a rain drop in the proverbial bucket. It’s too much. I want someone else to do it. I miss my dad. I don’t know how he did it all.

In more interesting news, the women’s legacy writing series I am facilitating started this week. It was great! This is what I want to be doing at Three of Earth Farm. I want it to be a retreat center. But if someone doesn’t prune trees and rebuild rotting steps and take care of the gardens and clean out 58 years worth of s*** , it’s not going to happen. And right now that someone is me. And I’m too old.