The whole weekend was a blast except for the part where the dog tried to kill me.
The fact that she may have it in for me didn’t occur to me until much later. At the time, her little dodge seemed an ill-timed but otherwise routine attempt at a squirrel. This time, however, we were about a mile into a run. I was going at a pretty good clip and didn’t even see her dart in front of me.
This summer Jack started mowing lawns. Ours was his training ground for exactly forty minutes. He left a big swatch uncut down the middle of the grass and complained that our lawnmower was too heavy. I fired him.
He went over to my mom’s house and mowed her lawn. She overpaid him and gave him a snack afterward. I figured I’d keep mowing our lawn myself. I could keep my fifteen bucks and get a workout every week.
My teeny yard is probably more than I can manage.
I’ve suspected this for a long time. My laid back approach to yard work is conspiring with the three garbage cans lined up by the garage, and maybe the red cooler and collection of shoes on the front porch to maintain our reputation as the neighborhood hillbillies.
The previous owners were a retired couple with no kids. I’m not sure what a retired couple with no kids was doing in a house with five bedrooms, but they had it furnished like you might expect for a house that was owned by a retired couple with no kids – separate rooms for sewing and crafts, an office, a guest room and a master bedroom.
The extra rooms are now dedicated to toys and camping gear. And luggage, a drafting table, and tax records. There’s a box of scrapbooking supplies from a brief time in my life when I scrapbooked. There’re two boxes of fabric scraps from a brief time when I quilted. There’s some kites, stacks of books and old Halloween costumes I can’t discard. A fax machine and old computer in a corner hint at our futile efforts to adopt this as our office at one point. We gave up when we couldn’t stave off the junk.
