One Armed
I’ve had a good spring in the gardens and around the house. To prove it, I can barely lift my left arm. Now, it might be that I slept on it wrong, but it’s more likely something happened during a mulch bag lift or a turning fork throw as I dug up coastal bermuda. I don’t know. But there it is. I went to use it the other day and it was painful. I think it’s a sign I need to slow down. Which is okay, because I’m a fan of slow, especially these days, my days of elderliness.
There was a time when I never thought I’d see fifty, now I’m so far past fifty that there are actually slim odds that I can collect my second fifty. Given how creaky I feel these days, however, I’m not sure about that, but I might as well give it a try and keep on walking and talking and working in the gardens because it’s probably good to have goals, and there are trees I want to see grow up.
And speaking of trees, I just thought of something I want to do, which is probably not a good thing to have happen if I want to rest my arm. But my Barbados Cherry has done a nice job of colonizing its space beneath the big oaks and it might be possible to dig up one of its children and move into the bed I created beneath one of the chinquapin oaks. If I get a good rain this week I might have a go at it. The dirt will be soft and the digging easy, just the right project for a nearly one-armed old man.