The front yard looks like a plucked chicken. Sort of like dogs who look like their owners.
Everything's been surgically hacked back to bare bones.
Every year my intrepid assistant Mr. Oscar Lewis, the world's most rabidly indiscriminate pruner, tries his best to kill 'The Fairy'. But it's a tough little rose, and every year he fails. Go Team Survival!
This little red workhorse is called is 'Home Run.' It's one of the 'Knockout' knockoffs, and just like it's crazy slutty parent, it doesn't know the meaning of moderation, restraint, or quitting time. Fool thing wants to bloom year round. Go Team Perseverance!
I'm tired from the hard yard work, but it's a good kind of tired, a happy kind of tired, a purely physical and healthy kind of tired. As opposed to the crappy brutally incapacitating toxic fatigue that wiped me out physically, mentally, and emotionally throughout chemotherapy.
I can't get over it. It just felt so good to finally be outdoors, to move and stretch and bend and lift, to feel the sun and the cold and the aching muscles, the straining back. It was revitalizing to be out there courageously swinging my Felcos, battling armies of brutally whipping snarling killer rose canes that wanted nothing more than to shred my skin to ribbons and rip my eyeballs out of the sockets. It was the most fun I've had in many months.
I mean, I was so terminally sick of having to stay inside and coddle my pathetic immunocompromised self, always having to tread so damn carefully to avoid even the tiniest cuts and scrapes, fretting over death by ordinary garden microbes. I'm clearly not cut out for a life devoid danger, risk, combat, and wild hair-raising adventures.
A Surviving Veteran of the 2007 Pruning Wars.
And now the trusty rosemobile is ready for an afternoon of wild hair-raising nursery hopping adventures and combat. Go Team Fun!
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