You might think I’d want to tell you all about the shirtless, bulging biceped jouster at the Renaissance Fair. And how myself – and Dave – managed to capture the specimen of a figure multiple times with our picture boxes. But I’ll save you all that sexiness and jump into the thick of it; me vs. the blackberry bushes.
Little did I know when tossing a clump of weeds behind my back, the handheld clippers would follow. “Shit,” I said, doing the math and realizing the six-foot distance to retrieve them meant crossing dimensions full of wild blackberry bushes.
Tentacle after octopus tentacle blocked my way and even as I chopped off arms they seemingly sprouted anew like the hydra.
But I thought of you, dear reader, when my old pair of rusty sheers stuck making me want nothing more than to give up.
So I carved a ten-foot path; blood trickling down my ankles, forearms, and hands, and with no bright orange handle in sight, I thought of you, oh dearest reader, and that refueled me.
I looked left, right, licked a finger, put it in the air, crouched, pivoted, and thunk. I spun on my heels, and as if all 12 of my readers summoned the gods at once the orange snippers appeared.
Had I approached from the west instead of the south a simple step over a clump of daisies would have been all it’d have taken to retrieve them.
Why all the weed and clipper throwing? Well, two raised beds are going in and I’m prepping the land. The mole’s may have won the first half of the summer, but if I have anything to say about it, the second half is mine!
Enjoy your evening and go Mariner’s!
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 