I like to sit at my kitchen table while I write because there's a pretty view from my window, because the kettle is close for tea and because Fritti's litter box is in my office to prevent Tofino from getting her daily dose of Tootsie Rolls.
From this spot I can see the neighbour's beautiful lawn, which is golf course perfect, draped by towering blue spruces and framed by rustic cedar rails.It's the sweetest corner on the street and is the stuff my dreams are made of. Seriously. It's like I live across from Capability Brown. Sadly, from Capability's point of view, he lives across from the Clampets.
Husband and I have started to make the place our own. Started being the operative word. We've ripped out the old swimming pool, but the sandy divot and the cookie cutter "deck to nowhere" still remain, because we're busy and fair weather doesn't get wasted on landscaping.
Our raised front flower beds already had decent enough greenery installed when we bought the place so they've been given the nod to carry on, which they've done marvellously, and while they're at it they also hide some random bike parts, my wetsuit booties and the snow scoop.
The back garden at least, is a vast green sweep of grass. This gets mowed matter of factly and at speed, about once a week. Capability Across The Way comes out to watch me sometimes, as I whiz around the yard on our little second hand lawn tractor that pops and backfires, singing along to The Hip on my headphones and trying to beat last week's time.
In short, we're coming up short in the category of fussing about the acreage. The neighbours don't seem to mind. I think they recognize that we are just weekend warriors of a different breed. They shake their heads at out bikes and canoes as they load up their 4-wheelers and speed boats. I know they tut at the lilac bushes that could use a trim and the indifference bordering on actual aggression with which I treat my hostas, but they also love to hear about our adventures, and leave bags of tomatoes on our front step while we are at work.
Of course, that could be the old reverse shoemaker ploy. Maybe they leave tomatoes in the hopes that I will someday grow my own.
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