Janet Ferguson and I became friends in the past year. We are in a small critique group together with Misty Beller and LeAnne Bristow. Janet is a contemporary author working toward publishing three romantic comedies set in her home state of Mississippi. When you read Janet's writing, you can picture yourself in Mississippi. And now, here's Janet...
I come from a long line of gardeners, but I missed that gene altogether.
I used to spend a lot of time on my front porch swing when the kids were little. They’d play in the yard, many times in a little wading pool, squirting the hosepipe, as we call it down here. Our collie ran around, playfully circling the pool and barking. Good times.
At night, sometimes my husband and I would sneak out once the kids went to bed. We’d let the swing rock and listen to the sounds of the Mississippi night. I loved these times which reminded me of my childhood, back in the day when children played outside until Mama called you in for supper.
I’m not exactly sure, but I think once my kids began high school, was when I began neglecting my porch and my swing. And my yard. Oh, my. During those years, things got real hectic. Ball games and concerts and practices and shopping, plus I took a job at the high school library. No time to sit. I have a lot of pictures of my cats enjoying the swing, though.
With good intentions, I pulled on my yard gloves (since I developed an allergy to poison oak) and headed outside to pull weeds. Within two minutes, a wasp stung me. Literally, two minutes. A few days later, or maybe weeks, I tried again. Pulled one weed, a tall one, apparently connected to an underground tunnel of fire ants. Why can’t we find a cure for those synchronized stings? It hurt. I went inside to tend my wounds. Another day, I lobbed a few branches from a tree, until my neck got a catch in it, and I was unable to lift my arms without excruciating pain for a week.
Anyway, I sat outside to type this article, and a swarm of mosquitoes attacked me, despite a good amount of insect repellant I applied. I don’t really get this, but I’m taking it as a sign.
No yard work.
A time and a season for everything.
I’ll enjoy the outdoors walking my labradoodle and test the yard work out in another year. Or two. Maybe the gene will kick in.
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