The yard is lovely, and the evening air simultaneously stimulates and sedates.
Mom wields a trowel.
I wield bland jokes and girl-talk topics.
Sometimes I wield a hose.
When Time doesn't hang over my head with the trowel of guilt, I might get my hands dirty.
Occasionally even when Time does hang over my head with the trowel of guilt, I give him a pile-drive to the face, take his blasted midget-shovel, and get my hands dirty anyway.
Mom instructs me.
I instruct them dagnabbit weeds.
One day I'll instruct some perennials of my own.
While clippers and grandma-esque knee-pads are encouraged, shoes are not.
Though it makes for a dirty experience, the soil feels better when fondled by my feet. (SCANDY PUN'D!!!)
Mom does the planter baskets.
I do the vase arrangements.
Peonies and pine-sprigs. Roses and Ruscus.
It's difficult to pick a favorite time for garden-loving, since crisp mornings and luminous evenings go head-to-head so regally.
I like when the earth is half-lit and the plants are beautiful.
