Yesterday I mowed in LaGrange; it was in the low 70’s when I started and though I wasn’t actually whistling while I worked (truthfully,rode on a mower), I was upbeat enough to tackle the dreaded front yard first. You have to go around so many things out front and then there are bushes that keep you from going around any closer than their bushed-out circumference; I did try to get closer at ground level, but most of the time wound up pushing branches out of my face and holding onto my hat.

Oh, yeah, the west side yard is also a pain since there are more bushes and the big rocks Mother put out, not to mention the rocks that have been there forever – the foundation stones for the old horse barn, which was gone by the time I was born. But I got it done and then I moved on to old garden part: I start out going around the evergreens in the middle and just keep going around and around and around and around – until I get to the grape arbor and then I have to adapt. Sigh.

Still, I got it done and was happy to see that the back expanse had not grown much because it had not rained. HOWEVER, when I mowed it last week for the first time there was some tall grass that just fell over and I expected it to be blown into the cornfield with the inevitable wind. Well, no. It had not been windy and I basically had hay lying in large areas. I mowed through the piles in a pattern that looked like plate of spaghetti and then, finally, chugged back to the shed.

And I got off . . . and felt a little woozy. It was 86. Not 73 anymore. Kansas had come to me.

On top of that, the mosquitoes were out and I am a mosquito magnet. I think my repellant was expired so I am going to go in search of a new spray bottle of super Deep Woods or something with the picture of a bug and a skull & crossbones on it.

To round off the day, before I flopped on the sofa, I made two cemetery pots. I had forgotten how dirty dirt is; the sink, the floor and every crevice in my hands were caked with Scott’s potting soil and Miracle-Gro soil supplement. My hands are bacterially-soaped clean, but still dirty; I’ll scrub them after I get the next three pots done . . . or is it four pots? Then, of course, there is the single geranium to go by my dad’s grave for Miss Alice, whose ashes are buried above his casket.

I have lamented about being the last one – the one left with the Memorial Day pots that have increased in number – but I need to realize that is the way it should be. All these pots are for generations before mine; there are those who will be putting flowers on children’s graves and that is really worth lamenting.

Summer is sitting here with me and I asked her if she had anything to suggest for a post topic.

Jerry was sitting in his home, buying things on Amazon, buying things on multiple cards – he’s become a shopping addict. And while he’s doing this, his sister Mary comes in and asks him what he’s doing and he says, “Oh, nothing, sister. Where are  your credit cards? There’s been a series of credit card thefts, so I have to make certain you are protected.”

This is where she stops listening and goes to feed the goldfish named Flounder.

“Are  you listening to me, sister?”

Mary replies, “I’m not listening to any of your nonsense.  You’ve been living here for four months, free-loading and I’m tired of paying your bills.”

Then a doorbell rings and Mary goes to answer it, and Jerry looks out the window and sees that it is an IRS man. He says, “I’m going to the bathroom.” When he gets into the bathroom, he flushes the toilet and then climbs out the window and ducks and hides in the bushes while Mary is letting the IRS man into the house.

Jerry gets into the car where he keeps a spare key and drives away as fast as he can and dings the IRS man’s car: he is planning to go to Kansas.

To be continued (Translated as, “That’s all I got, Grandma.)