Holey Moley

I took this post’s picture of a fresh molehill in my newly manicured lawn. My go-to fixes for them is using a water hose to find the exit hole and wash in the soil and rocks. I love it when our Georgia family members visit and ask what they are; I want to say those are little assholes my family’s been at war with for generations.

Speaking of, I still remember my grandfather and Dad parading around dead moles when they’d finally catch on in their archaic traps. I’m no killer, so I’ve broken the cycle. All I do is swear and momentarily flood their holes.

Not knowing if the tracing paper was shrinky dinks in disguise, we popped them into the oven at 325 degrees earlier to check. Seeing the colored pencil release into vapor, I asked over my shoulder, “Is it supposed to smoke?”

It was worth a try.

Having just heard a thud, Dave entered Evelyn’s room to check. There he found her fast asleep, having just fallen to the floor. How can she fall a couple of feet without disruption? Oh, to be a kid again.

It’s a buzz-sawing blackberry bushes down kind of weekend. Burning (after sundown to avoid the federales, of course) will also be on the docket. By now, you realize – with how much whacking we do – blackberries are not in short supply. Imagine a row of half a football field of those gnarly beasts, and that’s what we’re up against.

I’m going to skip out early. With the sun’s bright smile hitting me over the head at 6 am I better be ready for it.

Take care. Love, Jaclynn

PS I bought my 80s prom dress today. It’s ridiculous, but that’s the point. Here’s a photo of Dave modeling it for the camera.

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