All By Myself
The clover harvest continues. It is allot of clover! The last round I did with my husband literally swamped my compost pile. It has broken down far enough that the pile is ready for the next feeding. Hubby is busy executing in the corporate halls. Still leery of roving weed warriors, I decided to harvest the next batch on my own. Well, not quite alone. Priscilla was out there with me. She is doing well enough with her training that I can now trust her to resist saying hi to any dogs on leashes. She can now heel without the leash in a controlled setting such as our front yard.
I ran away from the migrant farm world for the last time at 18. Some days I mark it at 16. The 18 year old stint was a pretty short visit. My memory blocks are largely from the country living where decent folks like to live far enough away that one cannot hear the indecent screams. Far enough that you can create those indecent screams under glaring lights and no one will see. Not that decent folks would speak openly of such things if they do happen to see. The migrant trash will be moving on shortly, so it don't matter, no how. It is okay for Bubba to treat trash like trash.
By 1968 I felt much safer on the roughest city street than I did in any small town. Still do. Especially now that small towns sport the brightest lights.
But the Earth still calls. I still consider dirt one of the basic food groups. For my first decades of city life I lived in apartments and satisfied my dirt cravings at community gardens and park/research volunteer work. This is the first time I have ever had this much clover, sweet grass, and wildflowers of my very own to harvest as I see fit. It is, of course, the similarities between Mister and Missus Country-hay-farmer and the suburban weed warrior that are triggering the anxieties of their approach as I harvest the clover in the front yard. Or is it? As I hack and roll, I work to allow my memory to walk past the abuses which caused the memory blocks to the gentler memories that were buried in the trauma to explore some of techniques and terms I learned during that migrant farm work. Shoot, not even Mister and Missus Bubba were masturbating 24/7. There are some useful tidbits in those gentler memories.
Today's celebration is that I found the courage to work in the front yard and was not approached by a single Home Owner's Association representative, official or otherwise. I think I will blame it on Priscilla. She is not as big or mean-looking as my over-stuffed teddy bear of a husband but she is on the large end of dog-size. She might be a little better at rolling clover than hubby is.
I ran away from the migrant farm world for the last time at 18. Some days I mark it at 16. The 18 year old stint was a pretty short visit. My memory blocks are largely from the country living where decent folks like to live far enough away that one cannot hear the indecent screams. Far enough that you can create those indecent screams under glaring lights and no one will see. Not that decent folks would speak openly of such things if they do happen to see. The migrant trash will be moving on shortly, so it don't matter, no how. It is okay for Bubba to treat trash like trash.
By 1968 I felt much safer on the roughest city street than I did in any small town. Still do. Especially now that small towns sport the brightest lights.
But the Earth still calls. I still consider dirt one of the basic food groups. For my first decades of city life I lived in apartments and satisfied my dirt cravings at community gardens and park/research volunteer work. This is the first time I have ever had this much clover, sweet grass, and wildflowers of my very own to harvest as I see fit. It is, of course, the similarities between Mister and Missus Country-hay-farmer and the suburban weed warrior that are triggering the anxieties of their approach as I harvest the clover in the front yard. Or is it? As I hack and roll, I work to allow my memory to walk past the abuses which caused the memory blocks to the gentler memories that were buried in the trauma to explore some of techniques and terms I learned during that migrant farm work. Shoot, not even Mister and Missus Bubba were masturbating 24/7. There are some useful tidbits in those gentler memories.
Today's celebration is that I found the courage to work in the front yard and was not approached by a single Home Owner's Association representative, official or otherwise. I think I will blame it on Priscilla. She is not as big or mean-looking as my over-stuffed teddy bear of a husband but she is on the large end of dog-size. She might be a little better at rolling clover than hubby is.
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