I don’t garden. I find it a sweaty, dirty endeavor with little reward, at least the way I do it.
Why did I think I needed a yard? The grass just keeps growing. I keep mowing. It’s a vicious cycle. Maybe I need a goat, but then there would be poop.
Anyway, these guys grow without my love, carefree, just soaking up the sun, living their lives, totally oblivious to my neglect.
If anything, I have abused them. I’ve only watered them once in four years. I have whacked them like a mobster on the pier, and yet last summer they produced more grapes than a rabbit hides eggs on Easter. (Okay, that wasn’t the best metaphor, but I couldn’t think of a better one.)
I’ve heard they make a good jelly, but if I don’t garden, you’re a fool to think I make jelly. Maybe next fall? Ha!
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