I come from a long line of farmers. Farmers love the soil. Some raise crops and cattle and kids, like my dad and grandpas. Some garden for food and beauty like my mom. Dad was not for wasting good crop land with anything but food. He always told my mom, “You can’t eat flowers.” Which is why we seldom had flowers anywhere but around the perimeter of the house.
A few of us kids got the farmer genes; I think all of us did to some degree. We all have or had gardens. Of course, today I would call us agronomists, not farmers, but the love of all things that grow, is there.
Yesterday I spent outside “working the soil.” We were going to golf, but time got away from us and it was too windy, anyway. John worked in the front yard facing east and didn’t even know there was a breeze. I was in our west-facing back yard…
I cleaned up my shade perennials and divided a few hostas. I also fertilized my raspberries. I know they do okay without, but they get so much bigger and juicier when they get a little 10-10-10. I haven’t gotten to the higher garden box yet or my flower box. I have to wait until all the flowers show their faces before I do any cleaning.
After 3 hours I quit, mainly because I was so sore I couldn’t do any more. REALLY?! I guess I’m not 60 anymore. All it took as a good night’s rest to refresh these old bones and stiff joints. But it’s looking like spring in Wisconsin.