when you come home and there are roses on your doorstep

photo week: sticking it to the lawn

I have a 200ft garden, it’s so beautiful, it’s terrifying too, especially when the lawn turns into a meadow and you are way, way too weedy to crank up your petrol mower.   Those things are HORRIBLE, designed to make anyone not bestowed with the upper body strength of Big Daddy feel like a loser supreme.  I may have kicked the cherry tree, swore like a particularly unpleasant sailor, sat and cried like a three year old mid-tantrum under the cherry tree, stung the back of one thigh on a bank of nettles and stung the other on a bank of brambles.  My calm, serene mama watching quietly on, talking to my garden robin making magic happen in the beds that have gone wild in the space of a fortnight.

I beat it, finally. This lawn will NOT get the better of me.  And after I’d hoisted bag number 3,000 of grass clippings and died on my back on the (short) grass, Independent Annie, who does and always has done everything herself, looked up from the flower beds and nodded over to me approvingly.

And that was a very, very good feeling.

Plus I’ll have very brown legs and the body of a race horse by the time the summer’s through. Giddy up.

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