Of late I live with the perfume of gardenias. The scent is thick and sweet and seems to cling to my senses for hours. There is a large clear glass vase placed on the white tile island of our kitchen. She has it filled with the small pure white flowers. The contrast of the flowers perched high within the transparent water filled vase and the white tile remind me of innocence personified.
Anyway, I can't escape their scent. Just outside our front door are two very large gardenias each covered in blooms. I spent all of yesterday in the yard hard at work with the mower, shears, trimmer and blower, and the scent of gardenias. Kind of pleasant but after hours of constant exposure I sometimes felt the need of a huge shot of insulin.
As soon as the flowers fade and drop I'll take a pruner and give them a good haircut. I'm sick of sweet.
My yard has gotten ahead of me. Overgrown in places with shrubs badly in need of attention. I've spent most of my free time, this last week, in a vain attempt at 'catch-up.' Perhaps you've noticed since I haven't flipped the lid on this laptop in several days.
There comes a time in every mans life when his limitations reach around and slap him squarely in the face, and mine stings. As much as I hate to admit it I must seek help. We had a long talk yesterday and have agreed to hire a yard service. It shames me. I'm still a fairly young man but life and old injuries have finally reached over and taken quite a good grip on my stamina. Sweet Wife said I should take a break. I guess my aches and pains were readily apparent last night.
I work six days a week, and if I'm lucky if I get half a day off on Sunday. As I type I think about the work that awaits. My leaves have gathered on my roof and the gutters need to be cleaned. The herb garden is kaput. I should replant. I've projects left unfinished. Yet, here I sit.
Sometime today I expect a young couple to call for an appointment. I'll walk them around our fairly large yard and ask their price and hopefully agree on a once a week service. It's an embarrassment I shall endure. I'll make no excuses, but the shame of failure, my physical limitations, will ride in my throat like a hard ball of ice.
My friend, Senior, just sent a text. A picture of a pan filled with bacon. He asked if I wanted a bite. I haven't as yet answered.