Art Yourself: knabbler@society6
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Happy Wall-ing and Savings Layering!
I didn’t get the windows done.
Instead, I conquered the annual “That Which I Despise.”
In record time due to:
I skipped 2020 with absolutely zero guilt. COVID, and none of the box stores who were just beginning delivery were willing to ship soil or mulch. I’m generally not a fan of gardening, unless it bears salsa.
Last fall, I determinedly dug up the interlocking brick border and moved each about 2 inches further in, toward the building, so there’s be future less to tend. I also took a good number of bulbs from my oft-trampled only true floral bed. The damage really irked me at first. But, what else is a child supposed to do without siblings or much outdoor supervision? Permitting use of the imagination is a much more important investment, anyway. It’s also a convenient reason not to attempt to weed amongst wreckage.
The other south-side bed has been mulch, weeds and two obnoxious prickerly bushes. I’ve tried to kill them three times. Seriously. Chopping as mercilessly as the greenery would gladly prick me, I poured multiple helpings of all-natural, safe for pets, liquid weed killer down the stumpy gullets.
The stubborn regrowth hadn’t gotten very far, when the mulch angel stopped by. A little side comment about how much I really dislike those maroon-ish meanies, prompted an immediate, “I’ll take them.”
To which I promptly replied, “Let me go grab you a shovel.”
I also pulled up two white grocery sacks, a pruner, hand rake and gloves. Happy-to see-holes devoid of dangerous thorns inspired a fiendish grin. Then, What I thought were wild-spreading, brightly beautiful purple-flowered weeds were actually flowering bulbs of some sort. A hefty number of those departed, too.
After that, the only thing left to do, was to thickly cover the rest of the space with dark brown clumps of moist wood chips. My precise method? Dump a bag, smooth it out. Move on.
I did. I dumped a bag and a half into the two split beds leading up to my real front porch. I did take care to kind of paw some away from plants that I know are plants. Yellow daffodils, orange lilies. I also invested a few moments trimming that something-piney half-bare tree-like thing that lives to the right of a living room window. Probably not the right season to prune it, but every time the wind blows, it stretches an awkward, arm-like branch into my couch-view. It’s especially alarming at night.
From there, I rounded the corner to my new-two-years-ago railroad tie garden space that has yet to become one. I did mostly succeed in deceasing an odd, low-low-to-the-ground viny, yellow and green thing. My friend asked what the lone clump of greenery was. I don’t know, but it sort of resembles daffodil sprouts. Only thinner. I mercifully gave them breathing room, and dumped the rest of half bag I was holding.
Hostas are hardy enough that even I can’t accidentally kill them. Even when, say I didn’t forget to clip the tendrils and cut them back before the first Michigan frost. In my defense, the frost came early and I hadn’t been engaged in caring.
“Do you think I need to clear out all the dead stuff?” It was a hopefully inquiry. The hope was that the answer would be, “No.” Unfortunately, I was, as expected, informed that it would be a good idea.
That was a quick go, too. A couple of handfuls of dry, brittle, bud branches and leftover fall foliage was all it took. Again, I considerately brushed away bits from just sprouting buried shoots. I’m particularly fond of hardly-ever-need-water and ever-expanding Hostas.
So, maybe I do have a little landscaping desire buried deep within. Maybe, I’ll indoor-pot some poblanos next to the already potted cat grass.
Quote for the Week:
Click-stream rip tide.
Well by feline feeding time.
Sunless cold, cradled in the dark.
Really should have.
How about just not?
Morning would be meaner.
Not the way to start a day, unless it can’t be helped.
Brain-freeze and should-have bantering,
brooming sets and drifts.
Airborne, played by wind, curtain-carried white.
Slippery banister, lights just right.
Gusted hostas, sculpted ice.
A pocket phone for fear of falling.
Over-ridden, night-cast calling:
melodic whistling, otherwise quiet,
sharpened sculptures by layers and last,
hint back to warmth, pretty in the past.
So gorgeous in present.
Advantages exist for shoveling at night.
A fashion-less show, weather demanded:
bull’s eye red coat, Michigan-Michelin style.
Plus puffed purple gloves, hounds-tooth & hemmed hat.
Photo-ops. No qualms, anymore.
Can’t order pizza, if there’s no path to the door.
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