A Deep Breath (#12)

This year's garden has been a bit disappointing. My cucumber and summer squashes died off under the brutal heat waves. My Brussels sprouts, while tall and leafy, and pole beans, long and winding, will not produce anything before the first frost takes them. Poor planning and care caused these losses.

Yet, the tomatoes have survived, with the cherry ones even thriving. Below is a small sample of what I harvest. They were picked today. I think they might be the third or fourth round. And even more remain unripened on the vines. For now.

It demonstrates how unplanned and half-assed efforts can still bear fruit.

Of course, it is also a reminder that applying time and energy in an organized, deliberate way can produce better results. 

There is always next year. 

     

In the words of Bob Cratchit, "we made merry" today, my daughters and I, during a visit to my parents. Many a funny story was told. Many a slice of pizza and glazed donut consumed. There was even an attempt by my eldest to shove a chair into the small trunk of my wife's car, in order to take it back to her room. But I was not about to risk damaging the interior of my wife's care for a piece of used furniture. My "merry making" has its limits. 

Unlike Bob Cratchit's cheerful Christmas celebration, our little party did not "last long into the night".  So, I have no excuse for avoiding my most important Sunday task. No, I am not speaking of laundry, though I do have that going right now. Nor I am referring to preparing dinner, which I managed to avoid thanks to a ton of leftovers from this past week. Despite a belly full of pizza, a hangover from laughing with family, and fatigue brought on from driving two hours, I am now focused on my weekly blogging. 

Of course, I could decide that I am too exhausted. I am no "fifteen shillings a week clerk"; no one is paying me to do this. While I would like to believe my absence this week would affect my half dozen readers, with one or two feeling disappointment, none of them would act like an Ebenezer Scrooge and let me go. At least, I hope not.

Plus, that laundry is not washing, drying, or folding itself.

Yet, as Cratchit pointed out to his employer, "it is only once a year". A small burden on Scrooge in order for a poor man, like his loyal employee, to enjoy a bit of merriment. In addition, as pointed out in a movie version of A Christmas Carol, no one else would be open on Christmas Day, so there would be no profit to be made anyway. 

Unlike Scrooge, my burden is weekly instead of annually. But so is my gain. And while my pleasure from blogging cannot match the intense joy that the Cratchit clan would experience every Christmas, especially the one associated with Scrooge's reclamation, I must confess, there is some profit in publishing every Sunday. Knowing that at least six readers appear every week, makes me smile. Also, it is habit I can draw upon when I finally start writing fiction again. Finally, I think I would lose my mind if I did not clear stuff out of it. Although it makes me vulnerable, putting it out on my blog strengthens my confidence and improves my sanity.

In the end, I have written yet another Sunday post. 

And I am glad for it.