Mary worked in the yard for a while this morning, weeding. Overcast. Blustery. The wind threw a sweater across my shoulders. We sowed four kinds of morning glories.
For lunch, we had Salvadoran beef tamales, boneless chicken thighs and a mix of steamed vegetables.
A call from sister Deborah roused me out of my postprandial stupor. She wanted me to phone Mother and convince her she couldn't take aspirin because of her stomach. I did.
Later, another call. She was on her way over with two bales of wheat straw for me. The plan was to hollow out the bales and set tomato plants into them. She got the idea from some gardening magazine. The straw would act as mulch and retain moisture. No weed problems either. And, most important for me, I could scooter right up to the bales and tend to the tomatoes without Mary's assistance.
David spots the camera.
When Deborah arrived, she backed her car in front of the planter square. The bales were heavy. That's where David came in.
Deborah is outspoken.
After Deborah and David left, Mary decided to see if the push mower would start. I bet it wouldn't. Lost my bet. Mary trimmed around the house wherever the riding mower would be unhandy. On the front porch, we celebrated a job well done with two fruit popsicles.
I ended the day chilling at the outpost. The wailing and whining of the barn lot gate, as it swung open and shut before the wind, was mesmerizing.
The old barn has seen better days.
70.6 °F, clear.
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