Once every sixty-five years I do yard work whether it needs it or not.

Four years ago Jim and I bought our little patch of Florida.  The house we chose was built in the 1980s  (a grim chapter in architectural design) and had absolutely no landscaping.  In nearly forty years not one previous owner dug a hole and dropped in a bush or two?   Weird.

Shortly after moving in we found a landscape designer and had the place prettied up.  Along the sidewalk he planted Emerald Goddess Liriope.  It was beautiful the first year, pretty the second, tired the third and now, coming up on four years, it looks sad and mostly dead.

Yesterday I suggested to Jim we rip out all thirty-two plants and replace them with something that “stays nice.”  Jim simply laughed.  I took that as a “fat chance, lady.”

So I decided to do a little internet research.  It seems liriope is to be pruned back early each spring.  Who knew?

I have always loathed yard work.  I know some among you find it therapeutic and satisfying.  By all means, come here for your therapy and satisfaction.   Me, I’d sooner endure a root canal than a day yanking weeds.   However, yesterday some insanity overcame me!  I decided to cut those darn bushes to the ground.  I grabbed the kitchen shears and had my way with seven of them.

K

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Early this morning I hit the yard once again.  Halfway through the first bush of the day my arthritic old hands declared a strike.  I went to Jim and he set me up with a power tool!  I ripped through the rest of those plants like a hot knife through butter.

Now I merely have to sit back and wait for manifestation of new growth!  Altogether the yard work was a satisfying experience.  Perhaps I’ll do it again in another sixty-five years.