Gardens are for somebody else to relax in. Late Sunday morning I went downstairs and stared at my garden. It was quiet and cool, the sun not yet above the roofline. There was the hammock strung across the deck, inviting me to snuggle in with a book and pass the day lazing. Then I thought about how the pots needed watering. No, hammock would be nice. A cup of coffee in the Adirondack chair with the Sunday paper? A towhee hops by on the way to breakfast in the compost pile.
I notice the grapevine is getting a little thick over the deck. And the lemon tree is sprouting suckers. Don't the marigolds make the garden sparkle! And there's a few I need to deadhead. I head back into the basement to get my pruning shears. Six hours later I'm hanging from a limb of the scarlet oak, one foot on the ladder and a saw in my hand. There is already a pile of lemon tree branches and grape canes on the ground.
My hair is full of leaves and other flotsam, I'm sticky and sweaty, and very thirsty. I climb down and fold up my ladder, thinking about how good a shower would feel. Heading across the yard I notice the cat sprawled on the deck under the hammock. She rolls over and yawns as I pass.