confessions of a citified farmer’s wife


While I’m not exactly Eva Gabor to John’s Eddie Albert, I do kinda hum the theme to Green Acres every once in a while when I engage in a little bit of post-modern introspection in my back yard.

Growing flowers, as far as I’m concerned, was pretty tame. In spite of my brown thumb, I’ve managed to make a success of a bunch of knock out roses. You don’t have to tell me that’s not impressive — I know they grow like weeds. But let me live in the illusion that something magical is happening in the garden.

Because, well, something magical is happening in the garden.

The crepe myrtle where a sweet little statue of Mary sits is all covered in pink buds. It’s so pretty, and it’s going to get fuller by the day. A half barrel sits off the porch, overflowing with wild flowers. They’re mostly white, but today I noticed a beautiful blue one! I don’t even know their names, but they’re lovely to look at — so cheery!

So I sit out here in these summer evenings with my love, enjoying the cool breeze from the impending storms, and let the air tickle the little hairs on my arms, and let the green earthy smell fill my lungs, and let the pretty flowers do what a series of failed blood pressure medicines couldn’t do.

The bubbling from a small fountain is lulling me into a trance right about now and I’m distracted by the amazingly sweet smell of a giant green pepper that I just plucked off the vine.


I know! Is it me writing this? Impossible.

No. Not impossible.


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