step away from the virus. Yes. Just like that.

except that there's this rubber band thing, that snaps you right back in there. Twang! (that's gotta hurt)

Day three of the sickies, and the Man is now quietly and wisely replenishing my chocolate supply. Bless him. And I'm actually going through my email, in hopes that there really is life on the other end of my steadily elongating tunnel. (have spoon, will tunnel to freedom. or at least, fresh air.)

We've now watched all of the Pixar shorts that I could find - Geri's Game? love it! - played round after round of Uno, added pockets to the Toddles' Purim costume, napped and turned our sad, sandy front garden into a geometry project.

If each square on the graph paper = 4 inches, and we build a 10x40 raised bed here, a 36x40 raised bed there, and a 10x36 raised bed there, can the gigantic recycling toters that will SAVE OUR WORLD be able to get through to the sidewalk? 


answer: um. eep.

We cut out a paper toter, generously sized, and maneuvered it through the garden. Worked out missing bits, like oh - the existing garden beds? the left side of the garden? (ahem) and made a list of measurements that someone should go and get.

What about triangular garden beds? asked the Eldest, who had designed some in class. I looked at him. Could work, I said. Can you work out the area for me? Let's see which gives us more planting space. The Eldest nodded - thought better of it - and beat a hasty retreat. I'm - um - going to go play Uno with the Toddles, he informed me, virtuously. And vanished.

Leaving me with bits of paper, and a vision of a world outside. Or what it could be, if I only had the time - and a whisper of spring.

trim? cut? build

Note to self: it's hardly a short haircut, without getting the back of my neck buzzed.

And, whilst I contemplate this fine (no, no, resisting the urge not gonna no no refuge of the weakminded hell.), hairsplitting distinction (ouch ouch ouch bloody hell, puns? at this hour?), I'll be doing so en route to Home Despot. There, I shall coax lovely gentlemen (because it's always 'men) to cut lengths of wood for me, as the token slightly-hapless female in the builders' section.

A trunkful of dirt and cow poop, and home I go: it's bed-building time.

We live in a former industrial building, which was rehabilitated for people use in the late '70s. Yep, the year that the lead laws went into place. But, there were no garden laws, so our garden is made of landfill. Every year, I pick glass shards and bits of broken brick, even trash out of the ground -the glass fragments are never sharp, their edges somehow dulled by the dirt and stones around it. But still.

For five years, I've layered dirt onto my planting areas, trying to create a root network that would help hold some of the junk down. It's working, too. But I wouldn't eat anything that grew in that soil. Thus, of course, the bed. And I would go on and say something slightly witty and irretrievably thoughtful about growing and boys'n'dirt and maybe even drop a slight hint vis a vis eco-whatnot, or allergies, but hey: Home Depot opens at 8am, so I've gotta go.

Got wood to buy, things to measure and dirt to play with. Should be a morning full of possibilities, as the Eldest would say. Should be a morning of making possibilities happen, I'd reply.

(and he will, too.)

autumnal rituals

I know that it's autumn, and that winter is coming...

I've bought mitten clips for small hands, careless of their coverings

I've planted my usual 100 or so bulbs, this year buying mostly naturalizing bulbs, and imagining drifts of color in spring when I know I'll get mostly spikes of color - the ones that escaped our marauding squirrels

I've actually remembered to rake leaves, spread manure and mulch, trim deadwood against the coming cold.

I have a list of winter-proofing things to do, inside and out and it's endless.

I'm beginning to look wistfully at my garden, missing the darkness that comes with too many trees and too little space, regretting the light where I once wrathfully swore vengeance on the trees for blocking it.

Abandoned by MIT students afraid of frostbite, the Eldest, Toddles and I have played happy soccer on the nearby MIT field. Panting, we peeled off layers in happy abandon. It's easy to be so reckless, of course, with a nice warm cafe across the street...

I'm happily paging through my gardening porn, planting the ideal garden in my mind's eye, with swells of flowers and green, drooping ferns and spiky iris next to a small pond, splashing water...sunny open grass and a pragmatic kitchen garden, with warm ripe tomatoes. Clearly, the Burpee and Brecks people are bad for me.

And I'm resisting the urge to plaster the first copy of my column all over my house. I got a sneak preview and the photo of the Eldest is wonderful, though the editing makes my prose a little odd. But such is the life of the edited, I suppose.

Rabot M., I am thinking of you tonight. May your toe be only erroneously dipped into my wading pool.