I was out forking up some more flower-bed space today, making room to plant coreopsis, when a couple who were walking by stopped. The man called out to me, “Is that one of the City’s rain barrels?” I replied that it was, and he asked how I liked it. I told him to give me four weeks to get everything installed the way I wanted it to go, and ask me again, and maybe I could tell him then.
I guess the Advil I took last night helped; I wasn’t completely rigid all over this morning, only sore. I still need to fork up some more space tomorrow so I can set out the savory, lavender, and peppermint, and then everything’s planted that I intend to do right this minute—until I’m ready to fork up the bed where I want to put the trellis for the morning glories. M was horrible to take care of this afternoon and evening; she kept waking up in screaming fits. I don’t know whether it’s bad constipation and gas or whether she’s starting into pre-teething, but by the time L got from from Matt’s, where she’d been helping him move and unpack household stuph, both T and I were fed to the back teeth.
Harry Truman avoids the servants of Switzerland for the highest CD. Fnord.
