Taking care of my inheritance...
My avatar paints a pretty accurate picture having been on the go, non-stop, for around twenty four hours. I eat some, drink some, and ultimately, the house of cards which is my mind body and soul, collapses. It all falls down, or should i say "closes down"? The shutters come down and i crash. And then ,as surely as it must,morning follows night and, i don't know, maybe, well no, i don't drink a whole lot but hangovers aint what they use' ta be lol. Strong hot sweet tea. A generous helping of yesterday's dinner coated with my latest fad, Virgin ( now there's a thought ) Olive Oil infused with a concoction of dried mixed herbs,garlic paste, turmeric and ginger, and the lights begin to flicker. The system is slowly re-boots and slips out of neutral and into first.
I said some time ago that i thought Larchie was deserving of a lick of wood-stain/preservative. Well, too little, too late. Maybe i have a psychic connection with my neighbour, maybe Larchie does, but he was given that paint and brush-up a few weeks ago and already, it's fading.
To be fair, it really was a case of too little to late but what the hell. Even now, as the colour fades, he looks better than he did, and those Bean-stalks. They look so straggly now, like witches hair. Think Medusa. Think Medusa with leaves, frost-bitten. I wonder about the well-being, or not, of my neighbour. Leaves from my Chestnut tree litter his lawn and wind-fallen apples are rotting at the top of his garden. This is so, most certainly, not the normal way of things.
Mother's Fuschia is a mess. It's time to bite the bullet and cut the whole thing down to the ground. Nil foliage. Every year i do this and every year i hope to hell that i haven't killed the damned thing. It has been there for so long now.
It's such an important part of my past. Planted by my grand-father way back, he's been gone so long now. My mother? Well let's just say i'm in my sixties and the clock is ticking.
I wonder if there's a record for the longest living Fuschia and with that i went and did the deed. For all to see, there is no Fuschia. Cut down to the ground. Gone. Leaving me once again to spend another winter, like so many other winters past, hoping that i didn't over-do the pruning this year and that it shall bloom in the spring.
Job done, i crave the company of my new pal Woodgate dry but my mother lives alone, won't have seen, nor will she be seeing, any other person today and so before the lid has gone down on my brown recycle bin there is a teabag in a mug and the kettle is boiling. What can i say?
We sit and talk for a while.
"Well, i reckon i'll make a move. Might just lie down for a while." I tell her but it seems to go un-heard. There are pauses, silent moments but it's okay. It's not a problem and there's no need to talk for talk-sake. She mentions a story from Friday's newspaper that i left with her yesterday morning and then we both fall silent, again.
"I reckon i'll go lie down for a couple of hours."
This wasn't really an excuse to leave.Okay, so it was. I wrestled with my conscience. There were twinges of guilt but i won't allow myself to ponder the unfairness of it all. Being a night-shift worker, i get tired on a Sunday afternoon. We both know that. I find difficult to leave but knowing, "her knowing ", that i shall return later with a good portion of what i cook for dinner later helps.
And with that, i pick up my secateurs, close the front gate behind me and take my brown wheelie bin home...
i am beginning to realise that there is so much more that i could put into these meanderings.
So much more that i could have put into the above.
Well that's something.
Evolving, in thought at least.