I am not bacteriologically filthy, at least as far as plague-like diseases are concerned. I do have a lot of dried sweat on me and real dirt – the kind that comes from the earth and you can go things in. Probably some dust, also, and maybe remnants of a spider web. Yes, I let all this happen to me . . . and stay. Now I have to decide whether to clean up and thereby render myself not really inclined to refilth myself by doing some work around here or not.

The benefits of the getting clean are enticing – no dirty work today, some reading, that clean feeling, and guilt. On the other hand, I could just get to it and go to bed tonight knowing I had improved my lot and I would be able to put off handling that soap and water stuff. Not that I don’t like soap; I practically worship it. However, it is such a chore to get undressed, to get wet, to get dry, to get dressed, to take your dirty stuff to the laundry room and then realize, “Oh, I ought to empty the washer and start a load.”

Time for a daydream:

I have so much money I can send out for emergency workers on a Sunday to first, empty out my house, then remodel and repair, then move in new furniture, then pack and inventory all the knick-knacks. Well, to be truthful, the first thing they would do would be to put me on a Lear jet to a wonderful resort area with Spa people waiting on the tarmac with a Hummer to whisk me away to a personal cleaning process that requires me to do nothing except breathe and talk. I no doubt would have to pay extra to be allowed to talk, but that is almost the story of my life, and the first premise was that I had SO MUCH MONEY.

Wait, I think I’m going to modify the plan: I get whisked away to a spa and then to a brand new big house where everyone waits to be blessed with an assignment from moi. Organize those photos, refinish that antique furniture, get me a glass of iced tea. It’s the little things, dontcha know? Oh, and some of those cucumber canapes.

Well, I did it; I took my shovel and went into possibly snake-occupied territory and dug up a big fern. Fortunately, the rain I have been cursing for making the grass grow a whole big lot, has softened the earth and it was not a hard dig. The intertwining roots of the surrounding myrtle didn’t help, though. But, anyway, I got it out and in a bucket. And then I drove off and left the bucket. BUT, just as I passed the front of the house, I realized a giant fern was not seatbelted into the car; so I turned back.

After trying to calculate how much sun this fern got at Mother’s, I decided on a spot under a tree and near the corner of the six-foot fence. The soil is fairly good there since years ago I dumped some good dirt there, thinking that I would plant stuff. HA. Well, at least Fern is there now.

Yes, I have named her Fern, because I got tired of saying “the fern.” Subconsciously, I am probably thinking that if I think of her as Fern, maybe I will take better care of her. I am going to wait to see how she comes along before I dig up more Mother ferns. Now I am wondering, would they need names? Rose is taken, you know; but, of course, that’s silly because Rose isn’t a fern . . . even though a rose by any other name . . .