Dirt under my nails…

It’s 72, the sun is shining, the birds are in full chorus and I have a stack of seeds and several flats of flowers all ready to go. After a nasty winter of exile from the outdoors, I’m in full out overdo-it-mode, beginning with planting dwarf petunias in the rail planters on the deck. Strawberries went in the cedar raised box on wheels (10 of them, mostly roots and a wee whitish thing attached that might grow, or not).

Since our living area is on the second floor, carrying heavy bags of potting soil up steep stairs, by myself, is out of the question so I filled 5 gallon buckets and schlepped them to the deck that way. I should have alerted the cardiologist to come on over and do a stress test, seemed a perfect time for a checkup. (I’ll live, though on the third trip I wasn’t so down on that assessment as I’d have liked.)

The ultra-large raised bed on the cement slab/deck now sports two rows each of green onions, arugula, spinach and sugar snap peas. I was determined this year to get everything in as early as I dared. Last year was a disappointment because of crazy weather and too much going on.

The other big chore involved pounding those fertilizer tree stakes into the ground. With all the rain we’ve had, I thought the ground would be soft. I thought wrong, forgetting we’re on shale and hammering stakes is like trying to drive a straw into cement. I managed 18 of them before the first trickle of a tear and a few choice words whispered past clenched lips.

With some dismay I discovered how much damage the deer wrought on our landscaping. Two beautiful holly bushes and an evergreen are lost causes and will need to be replaced. I nursed them for 15 years. Losing them has me reconsidering deer hunting as a useful “sport”.

Bambi, I’m looking at you…

It’s good for my head, and my heart, to take a much-needed break from the grind of writing/promoting/fussing that has had me in its grips for way too long.

The world is simpler, more satisfying, when it’s just me with my hands buried in dirt and the music of nature vying for the earworm I picked up this morning…

About Nya Rawlyns

Nya Rawlyns doesn’t write typical romance. She writes emotion as a contact sport, rough and often raw. It need not be pleasant, heart-warming or forever after. What she seeks is what lies beneath—a dance of extremes, the intersect of need and desire, and the compromises we make when pain and pleasure become indistinguishable. ***** She has lived in the country and on a sailboat on the Chesapeake Bay, earned more than 1000 miles in competitive trail and endurance racing, taught Political Science to unwilling freshmen, and found an avocation in materials science. ***** When she isn’t tending to her garden or the horses, the cats, or three pervert parakeets, she can be found day dreaming and listening to the voices in her head.
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