I can finally see the bottom of our laundry baskets and I don’t think I should be held responsible for my actions toward the next person to put dirty clothes into one.
This weekend rocked. It was *gorgeous,* we played outside, and my big girl self trimmed some things that have been striking fear and trepidation into my heart for quite some time. {Ok, well, dad trimmed half of them, but as I used to say while sleep training the bitties…trending upward.}
A small oak, a small maple, a Japanese maple AND…wait for it…the peach tree all got their ears lowered. I initially set out to ask dad his opinion on what I planned to prune come “early February.” To which he said “you realize Monday is early February, right?” To which I replied “oh, right. How much time you got?”
I had mused and proposed and doubted and wondered at what I had learned about pruning the peach. Dad sent me for some bagged soil and when I came back he had pruned it! Just like that! No drama! No worry! He had even cleaned up the mess. I was gone 45 seconds, tops.
I think there’s a lesson in here somewhere about worrying and when I find it I’ll let you know. Dad said he “country-boy’ed it.” He also said he didn’t know anything about fruit trees but then proceeded to effortlessly trump my carefully google’d knowledge.
Country boys.
Sheesh.
