It’s mid-July and weirdly sunny and warm here in the Northwest corner of the country. Over 80 degrees for days and days and days. And me without a garden. Not only do I not have a garden, I never even ripped out the old dead plants from last year’s minimal, pots-on-the-deck garden. The raised beds rotted away and I never replaced them. The whole yard is overgrown. The rhododendrons are the size of—really freaking gigantic rhododendrons. I’ve just lost my outdoor-related mojo. The grass looks okay because I pay an octogenarian to mow it. He’s a spry old dude and I like to think the work helps him stay that way as well as beefing up his retirement income with a little under-the-table dinero.
The fence door came unattached years ago and has been leaning against the house ever since. The garage door doesn’t work. The ramp to the shed has disintegrated and someone might fall through at any time. Or they would if they were going into the shed, but why would they? There’s no garden. The blackberries have established themselves among the sprawling ivy and soon may start eating the squirrels. Or the cats. Aggressive stuff, blackberries.
Inside, the house is a mess. The closets haven’t been cleaned out in so long there may be several generations of skeletons in them. The dust bunnies have spawned great grand dust bunnies. I’m going to have to clean the place up or burn it down. I don’t have the money to fix the broken stuff or paint or landscape, but I can get rid of a whole bunch of crap and clean and buy a few plants, eh?