I’ve mentioned before the various clean-ups needed on my place. What continues to astound me is the various places the stuccoers decided to dump their leavings…
On the east side of my property, runs a steep and deep drainage ditch. Last week, after the whole bug-spraying incident, it occurred to me that my belief the town department took care of the drainage ditch weed control was probably incorrect.
And later confirmed.
So out I went with my little electric weed-whipper. Got along okay until I hit a stand of tall, wiry and lushly green weeds – which promptly grabbed hold of the weed whipper string, played with it long enough to pull an additional foot or so out of the ‘self-feeding’ roll and then let go just in time to slice my right leg.
Yes, yes, Mom, I was weed whipping while wearing shorts….
I looked over the cut and decided it didn’t need a tourniquet. I continued in my mission and stepped on what I though was solid ground, only to find myself tumbling down when the undercut earth (cleverly disguised by 4 foot tall weeds) gave way under my impressive bulk.
(Impressive bulk sounds so much better than ‘fatty-outta-shape-me)
Picking myself up and cursing the flourishing weeds (they appeared to have tough skins, none of them dropped over and died from my tongue lashing…) I decided I would limp over to the not-so-steep portion of the ditch and work there while I regained my bearings.
And promptly ran into a pile of stuccoer leavings….and flipped up some chunks that scratched me, but did not harm my eyes, because I did think to put on safety goggles….
(Are you picturing my ‘landscaping fashionista outfit’ yet? Are you laughing? You should be – – )
As I stood there, bleeding, huffing and puffing as the sweat poured off me, my right leg stinging as if I had stepped in a salt mine, and blood dripping from my left cheek, I felt pure, unadulterated rage welling up inside me.
Which is my clue that I’ve over done and it’s time to stop for the day.
What? You didn’t know anger can be a sign you’re tired and need to rest? This is one of the many lessons I’ve learned since my stroke.
Defeated by weeds, I limp into the house and ask the child-unit if he’ll be willing to dribble peroxide on my various cuts while I catch my breath and cool my temper.
He did – there’s nothing quite so nice as having someone take care of you for a moment or two to get your rage turned to contentment and peace. Once the leg cut was clean, the horrific stinging ended – apparently that particular weed juice doesn’t mix well with my body chemistry.
Not too long later, I hear the sounds of a gas-driven weed whipper…
(Remember my previous post where I hinted at nosy and judgmental neighbors? None of them, thankfully, live in any of the three blocks surrounding my house – MY immediate neighbors are Fantabulous!)
Restored to something regarding normalcy once I was rehydrated, rested and all band-aided, I walk over to my neighbors place and wait while he finishes his weed whipping job. We chat for awhile and then I ask if I can hire him and his heavy-duty weed whipper to finish the job I started, being sure to honestly convey the obstacles and challenges of the particular spot.
He says sure, but no charge – which we haggled over and ended with me promising delivery of home-made cinnamon rolls once the weather cooled enough for me to want to be in the kitchen, actually cooking, again.
He showed up later that day with a heavy duty brush clearer. Had the whole ditch finished in about 15 minutes.
Bless you, bless you, I whispered as I watched.
There is some controversy among town folk who have property that includes drainage ditches. Some say to leave the weeds tall, to prevent flooding, should we ever get rain again. Others say to keep trim and neat to cut down on pesky insect populations.
All I’m thinking is that section of mine must be planted with either comfrey or dutch white cover before next summer, or I’ll be making a batch of cinnamon rolls every week this winter to deliver next door – I’m not taking my clumsy soul into that ditch again…