Burying The Hose

I meant to, I really did.  See, when I mowed the lawn a week ago I forgot to reattach the bales-watering hose when I finished mowing that part of the backyard and proceeded to water the patio for 15 minutes.  I read in Straw Bale Gardening that he dug a shallow trench and buried his hose just under the grass so he didn't have to worry about mowing the hose or remembering to reattach it.  Brilliant, I thought.  Not so fast, said the grass.  I tried but first I couldn't get the shovel into the ground far enough, then I couldn't wriggle the shovel enough to make space for the hose to fit in there.  I gave up pretty quickly.  I guess I'll keep doing what I did last night, mow that part of the backyard first and then reattach the hose immediately.


It's a good thing that I was home when the phone-line-Diggers-Hotline guys came (not to be confused with the gas-and-power-lines-Diggers-Hotline guys; I didn't know they were different, did you?) because I went out and pointed out the phone boxes on either end of the retaining wall and asked them to mark if there were any buried lines up there.  Man, was that a good question to ask.  First, because they didn't mark those the first time they came when no one was here, and B. because the lines swoop down the slope for a bit and then swoop back up to run right in front of the retaining wall, right where CG plans to build the new stone wall.  Grr.  I called and left a message on CG's phone giving him the news.  I hope this doesn't mean delays while the lines are moved.  Maybe they're deeper than the wall or drain tile will be.






Once the Diggers guys were gone I gathered up a tarp, two loppers, a bow saw, and some gloves and went out to trim the daylights out of the forsythia.  I had to almost double over to mow under it yesterday and noticed that branches were pressed to the soffit and scraping the siding.  I confess that I just cut things off that poked out or crossed other branches and all of the ones that touch the house.  I should probably look up how and when to trim a forsythia, shouldn't I.  Ah well, it grows fast.

I did that instead of going to the Y today.  I'll go tomorrow.  I also returned those black and red Klogs on my way home from getting my hair cut.  I put them on meaning to wear them and they hurt my toe.  They kind of hurt my toe in the store but I thought that was the fault of the socks I had on.  Nope.  I had the receipt and returned them.  I'm not sad, that was a true impulse buy and not one that sparked joy like the red Birkenstocks do.

30 May--Barbara Malcolm, Horizon.

An hour later I sat in the parking lot of the mall, staring at the row of bargain bins on either side of the entrance to the craft store.  My heart fluttered and I could feel sweat trickling down my spine as I worked up the courage to go in.  I studied the people coming and going, trying to figure out if I’d fit in.  Fitting in had been my way of disappearing all my life.  I knew that if you blended in with those around you, few people made the effort to single you out.

Giving myself a mental shake to shut up Great-aunt Mame and firm orders to quit stalling, I grabbed my purse and went in.  I stopped at the service counter where the clerk checked my name off on the class roster, gave me a list of the required supplies, and pointed me toward the painting department.  I grabbed a cart and strode down the aisle determined to get what I needed and get out, but a stack of baskets caught my eye.  One that looked like a small picnic hamper with sturdy handles seemed just right for carrying my art things back and forth.  I checked the price--$28.95, too expensive.  As I reached to put it back the clerk working in the aisle pointed out a tiny sign that read “All Baskets in This Section 75% Off.”  A quick calculation convinced me that just over seven dollars was a good price for a nice basket.  Into the cart it went.

The painting department was a sensuous revelation.  It only took a minute to find the small set of watercolor tubes and the five brushes required.  But I couldn’t tear myself away from the brush rack.  There were large, full ones with firm bristles and bamboo handles, small ones with what looked like no more than nine hairs and lacquered handles, fan shaped ones, and round and flat ones galore.  I spent many minutes touching each one, stroking them on the back of my hand to see how they would feel and move on paper.

And the paints--there were large tubes of acrylics, tiny expensive ones of oils, and medium tubes of watercolors.  I couldn’t resist opening the tubes and inhaling their rich aroma.  The acrylics all smelled like the art room at Kingman Elementary, the watercolors didn’t have much of an odor, and each oil color smelled different from the others.  The colors were mind-boggling:  luscious reds like passionate kisses, blues for every patch of ocean and sweep of sky, lemon yellow so tart it made my mouth pucker, greens for every leaf and blade of grass.  I couldn’t imagine how anyone would ever use them all.  I also saw the metal trays with cakes of paint like I’d bought for the boys when they were little, and that had so frustrated me as a child when I couldn’t make the paint do what I wanted it to.

Consulting the supplies list, I turned to the rack of sketchbooks and pads of watercolor paper.  I was amazed that there were nearly a dozen different kinds of paper for watercolor alone.  Checking again to make sure I had the right size, finish, and weight, I headed for the checkout.  Paying for the class and supplies cost nearly eighty dollars even with the discount.  Now I couldn’t back out; I had too much invested.

Our weather is wacky.  Today it was sunny and about 75.  Tomorrow it's supposed to be cloudy, maybe rainy, and 85.  Saturday is supposed to be cloudy, rainy, and 65.  It's no wonder that my bales are only 70 degrees.  Up 10 degrees, though, which is good.  Maybe I'll get the carrot and radish seeds sown this weekend.  Maybe even tomorrow.  After I go to the Y.
--Barbara