One of life's little pleasures for me is to spend the early evening with a hose in my hand watering. Bob calls me a "squirt idjet." That's what his dad called his mother. She loved to do the same thing. The big difference was she had a real green thumb. I, on the other hand, just like to be outside squirting water. We have a little hummingbird that likes to dart in and out of my spray. I don't even have to worry about moving and startling it, it seems to know I'm OK or maybe it's not paying any attention to me. Either way, it gets a bath and I have the pleasure of watching.
The other day Bob put a timer on the oscillating sprinkler up on the meadow. It would be nice because we forget to turn it off, however, it stopped the little drip and the quail started dwindling away. As soon as we figured out what was going on, he took the timer off. We'd rather take our chances trying to remember the water is going than lose our covey. They are such a pleasure to watch up there in the twilight taking turns in three's and four's drinking the fresh water.
Our Trader Joe's basil plant is growing like mad in the wine barrel planter. It must be it's "Laughin' Place", (remember from Song of the South)because each year the basil grows wonderfully there. It is one of the few things that I have success with. Oh, the lavender and the daisies do well and the gazania seem to propagate, but past that my gardening consists of squirting. I plant in the Spring and squirt the rest of the year. My thoughts on the subject are "I'd love you to grow, but really...you're pretty much on your own." We always plant a couple of tomato plants because they remind us of, Billie, Bob's mom, plus we love the smell of the leaves when you rub them between your fingers. We got a few off the vine...maybe ten or so, but that's not the point. I know I'll never end world hunger with my little plants, they just make your heart feel good.
Our hearts have been a little heavy the last couple of days. A friend...well, I guess more like an acquaintance that impacted our lives was killed in a hideous accident. He was the fellow who did all the work on our motor homes. He was crushed by a motor home he was working on. The man behind the wheel was apparently alcohol impaired and pushed the wrong pedal. Something Tuffy did everyday turned into tragedy. He was a bit of a curmudgeon but such a wonderful all around guy. I know when he saw us coming the color drained from his face. He always tried to make a "silk purse out of a sow's ear" when he worked on our old motor homes. Each time he pieced one of them back together we spent a little time talking about art. He had a degree in Fine Arts and taught ceramics at the Hancock College, but he soon became disgusted with administration and all the politics that interfered with real teaching. That was one thing he liked about owning his own business...no one to tell him what to do. Never once did he ever charge the amount of the estimate. It was always less...imagine that...LESS.
I guess the moral of the story is that even if you do the same thing everyday you have to pay attention...the devil is always in the details.
I know we won't be the only ones to miss you, Ron.
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