Birth, growth, beauty, manipulation, lies, illusion, deception, intrigue, delusion, experimentation, destruction, tragedy, murder, death, decay, reincarnation . . .

a new novel in the works?

Nope. Garden planning.

I have lost my little bit. You can call it spring fever, or comment – “that lady must really like to scoop horse poop.” It could even be more serious, an early-ish midlife crisis, but whatever the diagnosis – I am planning a new garden. A really cool one. As it is January, I am only in the beginning stage: amassing a mountain of horse poo – Mt. Poo. This steaming landform, if large enough, will compost well and be excellent garden substrate by spring. Joy!

And now it appears I have a newborn blog – a creative outlet for nonfiction and a historical record of what becomes of these seeds I gleefully ordered. Yes. This baby was born out of necessity, it has purpose. Blog = accountability. Oh, yeah. It’s on. Let’s do this.

This will be the first full summer at our small farm, land we owned 7 years ago and by luck or fate, own again.  There is a wide creek along the border, some pasture, lovely floodplain woods, and thanks to our ingenious friend who owned the property in the meantime, a small 1930’s relocated farmhouse.

Excited doesn’t cover it. We (okay, I) am poised, anxious to garden the ever lovin’ crap out of (that’s southern for “intensive – not quite ‘French’ and too liberal for ‘square foot'” gardening) a 40′ x 40′ area in the sun-soaked yard. We’ve had gardens every place we’ve lived: spiral, raised, nurtured or neglected. But this summer we will create . . . a masterpiece. Or a monster. Either way, it should be a heck of a lot of fun. We will plan, replan, and then execute “The Plan” and the inevitable 1500 addendums to The Plan. That is the plan. And by the end of the summer, hopefully, we will have a few flowers and edible items to go with the bug bites, irreparable farmer’s tans, tough feet,  wiry archery-ready and naughty-pony-proof arms, and a real bumper crop of photos.

Nothing lasts forever: not childhood, the delusional strength of middle age, or winter.