I can get singularly focused, eyes on the prize, and relationally, it might come off bullheaded. The bullseye rarely is all I see, but with some goals, values, and stars we shoot for, the outer rings of failure are not an option.
I abutted a layer of four-inch-thick, sludgy compost against the concrete pool deck. It’s a portion where the water runoff caused a mini Grand Canyon cutout, with hardened sand unable to support plant or animal life. Even though I’d had a full day—typing progress notes, teaching Evelyn school, reading, making two loaves of bread, and grocery shopping—when the sun dipped low and shaded the area, I wrestled Dave up from the couch and we picked up the wagon, shovel, and rake.
We’re getting a visitor at 9 a.m. sharp. Knowing how boring it can be for a six-year-old to sit around and watch her sister practice sports, the drop-off here is a favorable choice. Via text, Lainee said, “Y’all doing anything?” When I told her a big, fat nada, she asked if her daughter could come over, then followed with, “She’s real cute.” “Hardly any messes.” “Potty trained.” Of course, we said yes. Evelyn’s worked hard in her reading, math, and piano this week—she deserves a social playdate.
I’m tempted to ditch Dave with them and sneak out to a native plant sale in Byron, a 23-minute drive east. The country road drive, past pecan and peach trees, with pastures rolling green, is soothing, lovely, and never feels like a commute. All the roads here are like that—so even hearing the word traffic feels foreign, like loathing Mondays. Years ago, when I chose not to work Mondays, I rewired my mindset on the workweek.
I guess I’ll take them with me. An outing could be good for us all.
I’m looking for grasses. Native grasses that root deep into marshy areas and hold the soil where runoff threatens. I’m fairly certain that if I just get them in the ground, they’ll multiply, so later I can split them off and keep the waterfall of reproduction going.
We’re on chicken duty, too. My wake-up call is the rooster’s caw, and I’ll putter the golf cart next door to let those little dirt-scratchers out. (This post’s picture is on the drive home this morning). Likely, I’ll find eggs on top of the tarp again—when Dave puts them to bed, he forgets the hidden spot. I never forget the secret places—because around here, hidden eggs are like Easter morning year-round.
Alrighty, I’m going to invest all my energy into the M’s. Cal Raleigh is still knocking on Ken Griffey Jr.’s doorstep, looking to beat his record, so I need to keep my peepers peeped for that.
See you later, skater.
Love always, Jaclynn
Going On 40 