A Lovesome Thing
My garden is a tip so I intend to be ruthless over the next few weeks, ruthless and freespending. I can hardly go too far over the top as the area I have to work with is so small, and the bed you could call natural soil is blighted with privet TREES which I don't want to cull as they are better than nothing tree-shaped. So that whole bed will have to be content with being Neat and Tidy (and dank and sunless). Containers it is then, where I don't have rock, a 45 degree slope or agave.
There might be a change in the landscape quite soon if the soil under the topmost boulder continues to erode. I wouldn't mind a bit, as far as I can see it would just roll down into the pickleweed, missing my new fig tree. We are very restricted here as a Protected Shoreline and Marine Habitat, but I am intrigued with the though of extending the empire just a little bit, backfilling, lovingly planting more beautiful things.
My real dream is a potager, and an orchard, and a few chooks scratching around contentedly making lovely chooky sounds. If I ever have a next house I would quite like it to be on a hill. Where I am is perfect for sea level, but I might get to the point that I want to cash in my chips, and the though of a spiritless condo makes my heart sink.
I have two new sewing clients, just finished a project for one, just starting on the other. I love doing it, it is the perfect counterpoint to film work, and pin money to boot. I have bought myself a ring and feel very flash.
On Sunday morning I happened on a website of Scottish songs while trying to recall the words of the Eriskay Love Lilt, and sat singing at my computer for over an hour, all the dear old songs I remember. I feel like an anachronism, and I haven't handed on so many things I value to my children - songs, poems, Bible stories and quotations, my strange assortment of practical skills. "A ragbag of talents" Ruth called me with malice aforethought. If I ever have grandchildren I will indocrinate them before they have the wit to resist. I think I should be a village storyteller, the crone who remembers.
There might be a change in the landscape quite soon if the soil under the topmost boulder continues to erode. I wouldn't mind a bit, as far as I can see it would just roll down into the pickleweed, missing my new fig tree. We are very restricted here as a Protected Shoreline and Marine Habitat, but I am intrigued with the though of extending the empire just a little bit, backfilling, lovingly planting more beautiful things.
My real dream is a potager, and an orchard, and a few chooks scratching around contentedly making lovely chooky sounds. If I ever have a next house I would quite like it to be on a hill. Where I am is perfect for sea level, but I might get to the point that I want to cash in my chips, and the though of a spiritless condo makes my heart sink.
I have two new sewing clients, just finished a project for one, just starting on the other. I love doing it, it is the perfect counterpoint to film work, and pin money to boot. I have bought myself a ring and feel very flash.
On Sunday morning I happened on a website of Scottish songs while trying to recall the words of the Eriskay Love Lilt, and sat singing at my computer for over an hour, all the dear old songs I remember. I feel like an anachronism, and I haven't handed on so many things I value to my children - songs, poems, Bible stories and quotations, my strange assortment of practical skills. "A ragbag of talents" Ruth called me with malice aforethought. If I ever have grandchildren I will indocrinate them before they have the wit to resist. I think I should be a village storyteller, the crone who remembers.
posted by Tricia Rose at 10:40 PM
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