While appreciating that he knows his way around a lawn mower, I recognize that my husband Bruce cannot distinguish a pansy from a petunia. And he has no intention of learning. That is fine with me -- I am happy to be the family gardener.
So it was me out there early this morning turning on the sprinklers. Southern Ontario is in the grip of a drought, and because I no longer rush out the door at 8:30, I could do something about it. (Time to water the flower beds -- who knew that would be one of the benefits of retirement?)
Soon I was extracting dandelions, cutting deadwood from the rose bush and spraying the brick walk with horticultural vinegar to keep down weeds. I noticed a little toad, the resident chipmunk, our cardinal family and a gang of grackles. Gardening, for me, is addictive. I'll just yank out one more bit of bindweed .....oh, look at you, you poor dry thing....I must transplant those ferns......
Bruce would have been in and out of there in a flash. Sprinkler on. Done.
I did eventually stop, however. Transplanting ferns would have taken too much time -- time that I couldn't afford. My sister-in-law Toni was arriving from Edmonton, and since I was her chauffeur I didn't want to be late on my very first middle-of-the-day airport pickup.
The gardening could wait. I had more important things to do.