After a week trying to make sense of a senselessly violent world, it was a gift this weekend to be able to be outside and in the warm rays of the sun. Rather than join the splashing of my child with his friends playing in the pond, I slipped on my gardening boots and crouched low as I pulled the first of many pernicious weeds that had sat and grown strong from time and neglect. The smell of the earth releasing these twisted and spindly fingers that reached far and wide triggered memories of decades ago where my dad would wake me and my six brothers and sisters up early on Summer mornings.
On these days after we rubbed the sleep out of our eyes, he would set about gathering all of the tools we would need for the day to work on the yard. Admittedly, my siblings and I would initially mumble and grumble, outraged that our day was being dictated for us, but then we would settle down as our small fleet would systematically work on clearing weeds, raking out beds, clipping hedges and digging holes for new plantings. This took many hours and my dad was gifted at finding endless tasks to keep us working.

These memories re-played in my brain……..
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xoxo-