Frank the Yard Dude came by this morning, manicuring the lawn around the emerging daffodils, turning the wild open range back into suburbia like every other yard in the subdivision. I figured I better take these pictures now - the contrast with "what is" compared to "what will be" is going to show up so much better if I put the gray day photos of now against a sunlit photo of new planter beds. As soon as the beds are built, I'm going to set in Canna bulbs so that they'll screen the garage openings and maybe some Rose of Sharon. The old lantana needs cutting down before the new leaves start and the Bearded Iris need to be thinned out. If I get one warm sunny day during the next few weeks, I will take off work so I can do some much needed maintenance.
Just noticed all the birds fleeing the yard as a hawk slides across the sky. Big Bad John came to town and all the little guys ran for cover. Guess so - who wants to end up as a meal?
When I run across a young one who claims to want to be a writer, I tell them, as if I knew the secrets to the universe, that the difference between a writer and other folks is that a writer writes. Do you think there is a point where I will get that? That I will write instead of talk about it? This blog is part of that. If I can get past the sporadic words that find their way here, then maybe I will truly be a writer. Wrinkled, grizzled, older than dirt, but, by the powers that be, a writer!
