The blueberry bushes were hurting.
It’s been warm and dry for quite a while, and the plants are planted in a high, dry spot, and they were not looking good.
It’s a pain in the butt to haul a hose out there, so they never get watered.
My dilemma was: Do I water them, or do they die? But I felt like I’ve got better things to do than water a bunch of damned bushes.
So I buried a PVC line with a stub at each bush and put the whole thing on a timer.
Four days later, the weather changed, and it’s been cool and wet ever since.
One way or another, the blueberries are perking up.
The blueberry bushes never knew what hit them.
One of them’s a Boomer, but what comes after genZ?
When I took the stove to the repair shop 6 weeks ago, it was supposed to be ready in a week. A week later, it was supposed to be ready in another week. And then more of the same.
Waiting for parts, they kept saying.
LP conversion kit, they said.
It added up. It got old.
I was stewing about it in my office, looking out the window, when my gaze fell upon the souvenir broken part from the stove, which I’d saved on the window sill. It’s badly busted, but it’s got a perfectly good LP orifice on it, and I wondered to myself: “What if that’s the part that we’ve all been waiting for for weeks?”
Mary got on the phone, and they told her that they need an ‘LP kit’ to fix the stove. And because it’s a ‘kit’, it can’t be the same as what I’m holding in my hand.
You and I know that’s just bullshit, but Mary convinced me not to get on my motorcycle and ride the part down to the store immediately.
I stewed about it over the weekend, convinced myself that my souvenir orifice had to be the fix we’ve been waiting for, and I drove it down to Barre first thing on Monday.
“I believe this is the part you’ve been waiting for,” I told the lady. Among other things.
“I’ll make sure the technician gets it,” she said.
That was 2 weeks ago, and now they’re saying there’s a government regulation they can’t break. Some fucking safety concern because it “might blow up.”
You want safety? Try cooking with a hotplate.
A mutant iris.
It’s not looking good for hemp this year.
After years of interbreeding, my seedstock was pretty diluted, so I bought two strains and planted them, and resolved to keep track of them.
‘None of one of them’ came up, so I was down to legacy seeds and one new kind.
Eight plants went into the ground.
The weather got wet and the slugs came out. Still eight plants.
A cold spell hit and one plant decided to flower. It was a male, so … make that seven.
The deer ate four of them, so I’m already down to three plants, and they’re sickly and yellow.
I blame it on global warming.
There are 1001 uses for re-bar
We got invited to dinner next door, where the parents of Mary’s friend Josh were staying.
Turns out that they were two very distinguished and interesting folk, and we all got sloshed and had a really nice time together.
Next morning, I was easing into my routine in the basement, when Mary gets a text. They want to come over and check out our place. Ten to fifteen minutes.
What?
So. A bishop in the Episcopalian church is on his way over, and you never got around to cleaning the toilet after your colonoscopy. That would be a good place to start.
When they showed up, I was nonchalantly reading on the porch. We gave them the grand tour, and when they left, they were kind of shell-shocked. I don’t think they’d ever seen anything like it.
You should see me parallel park.