Susan Spess Shay

Still playing make believe.


Something about Me (Gasp)

My earlier confession (I Confess!) did my soul so much good, I’m going to hit it again. Ready? (Clears throat and takes a deep, cleansing breath.)




I’m so ashamed. I love gardens–strolling through them, looking at them, letting my heart warm and swell, just enjoying them. That’s all wonderful.

I even like planting new plants. Digging holes in the fresh dirt and arranging the baby plants is a joy! I really like seeing them take root and live. Okay, maybe I don’t hate gardening. Maybe I hate the stuff that goes along with it.

It takes a lot of hard work to make them look like the ones I like to look at.

(“You sure this girl’s a writer, Marylois? She just ended a sentence with a prepositty-thing.)

I don’t like grinding dirt into my knees. And I’m not wild about getting dirt under my fingernails and/or breaking them.

I. Hate. Sweat. And sweating!

And I hate sunburns, which I get nearly every year from working in my garden.

On our first anniversary I planted rows of green beans and beets, and ended up with a 3rd degree sunburn. (Okay, maybe not 3rd degree, but it hurt like snarklies!) Not the best anniversary celebration we ever had, I promise you.

I hate weeds AND weeding. Did I mention ticks? Hate, hate, hate those mean little suckers. (Literally, they’re suckers. And even after you flush them down the river, the place where they bit you ITCHES! for a long time. Eeeew, yuck!)

And I hate snakes. Even the ones that ‘can’t hurt you”.

To my shame, last year I flunked gardening, totally.

I worked hard early on, putting down weed barrier, using Roundup, and mulching, mulching, mulching. Did I mention I mulched? I did.

A bunch.

Then the heat hit. Oh, my stars! Heat doesn’t describe the weather we suffered last summer. The blazing, hellish temperatures ate my lunch! (I think I’m allergic.)

Can you believe we had a record breaking fifty-one consecutive days of 101plus heat? No rain.

So my plants wouldn’t die, we kept the sprinkler system going. The thing is, when plants grow, so do weeds. And every time I tried to go out and pull the weeds sneaking through the Roundup/weed barrier/mulch block I’d put down, something happened.

Sometimes it was something as simple as a phone call. Other times, an inside chore. Once in a while, I could even make up remember an emergency errand I HAD to run.

If I had to, I fell down, kicked and screamed until I gave myself permission not to go out. Of course, my gardens grew up with weeds, but I didn’t care. With heat like that, who was going to be outside to see it anyway?

Besides, surviving the summer was much more important than killing off a few weeds.

Now when I look out at my Tarzan-and-Cheetah-would-be-right-at-home back yard, I realize I might have been wrong. (Imagine that. LOL) One of these days, I’ll go out and get to work on my wild world. I’ll dig and pull and fight, working my way from one end of that mess to the other. (Oy!)

Or maybe a glutton for punishment boy scout will come along who wants to earn his Helper To A Lady In Distress Badge.

Miracles have been known to happen, you know. 😉

Now I have a question. When God put Adam and Eve the perfect Garden of Eden, who had to pull the weeds?