So Memorial Day, between eating hot dogs and enjoying the hot weather, we planted a tree. Planting a tree is not a new thing around my house. I do believe that I’ve only left two plants in the ground that were on the property when we bought it. But planting a tree by way of committee was new, and believe me, we all had a say in it from me and my bad self with my hair up under my floppy hat, to Thing Two with gloves he had to borrow, to Brown Dog who thought Thing Two had dug a very fine hole but it would have gone faster if he’d used his front feet instead of that plate on a stick.
I’m hoping that it starts a new tradition, but I don’t think it’s going to stick because there simply isn’t enough room in my yard and garden for any more trees. Roses, though. . . Guy and I have a spot where we plan to put roses. He picked out the first one last year, so it was my turn this year, and though I love climbing roses, I chose a cutting rose because that’s what fits there. It’s not in the ground yet because the soil needs a huge amount of amending right next to the drive. Fifty plus years of people driving on it have packed it down and tainted it with oil.
I’ve always said writing is a lot like gardening. When things don’t grow, just add more, ah, crap.