Don't Talk

Once upon a time, long, long ago in the days before there was even one freeway in California (can you imagine?), on our way to the beach we had to pass a rather odiferous fertilizer plant.  My mother would invariably pull out her one liner, "Don't talk.  Just sniff."  What's worse, we did.

I could have used that line yesterday, in the best way possible.  I was just sinking into one of my many naps (sometimes lately I think I've contracted narcolepsy) when I heard a sound.  No, I wasn't wrong.  That yard mower engine was in my yard!  Michael heard it, too, but we didn't see anything, so we went out to see what was happening.  Over the rise in the west field came my smiling good neighbor Joe.  "I had an hour to spare and thought I'd give you a hand."  Omigosh!  The weeds have sprouted up to over a foot high in all the yards and the place was looking ratty.  Kind of like you hope no one notices your slip is showing (do they even make slips anymore?), I'd hoped in vain my hill wasn't given much attention.  Well, I certainly wasn't going to banish him from the property, and could only express my embarrassed appreciation before Joe tootled off again.  That man made the rounds of all the yards before going home unannounced as he had come.  I called him later to express my gratitude.

There is nothing quite like the perfume of new-mown grass wafting in the front door or when Michael and I went out later to enjoy the afternoon sun and aroma.  As I told Michael, "Don't talk.  Just sniff."

There are some very nice people in this world, and I know one, for sure.

Stay safe.  Be well.