7.19.13 Guerilla Gardening

   I run out in spurts, race past the haranguing, hungry female mosquitoes with their instant-alert super abilities, kneel down into the garden soil, wide handedly reach round plants to encompass weed grass and all else, pull pull while holding down the plants to not pull pull them too.

The ruthless July sun is cooking into my back and arms, within seconds the river of sweat rolling down my back in waves, dripping from face, unbelievable.

I’m slapping at the happily focused mosquitoes, tossing the weeded stuff in a pile, then stand to rush over and move the sprinkler, trying to evade the winged scourge as I turn the tap and let the plant’s thirsty drinking begin. Then, curiously out of breath, race indoors again.

I call it Guerilla Gardening. 

Crappola. Summer is here.

Course, for those of us with seasons, I always say we love to complain. About the weather. Ohhhh, it's so cold. Ohhhh, it's so hot. 

Once my beloved was on a plane, years ago, coming back from Europe. The person next to them was from Germany, reading up on what the U.S. was like. He turned to him, asking " Is it true people in the U.S. talk about the weather all the time?". Like it was a weird thing. An unusual thing. 

I sat back when he described this to me, in amongst his dreamlike experiences in Iceland, in Italy, wandering about. This in our early days, all entwined we were, I leaned back and thought " Wow, other people don't?". 

Yup. All that love.