I’ve been putting in more time gardening than blogging this week. Well, not gardening exactly. More like hacking back the ivy that burgeons in the parking strip in front of my house between the sidewalk and the gutter. My camera’s connector cable is on the fritz so I’m using this lovely photo Autumn Ivy by Voxphoto available from the Creative Commons on Flickr.
Even though it’s rarely if ever autumn here in the LBC, a huge magnolia tree grows smack dab in the middle of my ivy patch, and it obligingly drops dead brown leaves year-round for a convincing autumnal effect. In an ongoing battle that I undertake two or three times a year, I chop through the green leaves (ivy) and furrow out the brown (magnolia) much to the amusement of my neighbors and the amazement of their lawn caretakers. It’s about a six hour task which I usually break down into three segments or so. This year, I’m happy at least that I can toss the refuse in my brand new compost bin instead of foisting it on my long-suffering garbage man.
It’s the only time I see some of the people who live around me, and since no one looks for anyone crouching in the gutter in my comfortable neighborhood, I’ve glimpsed a couple of juicy goodbye kisses and one bitching fight between people who are unaware of my presence. I always come across items that have been dropped into the snarls of ivy and lost to the world as we know it. Besides the pretty predictable fast food wrappers and cigarette butts, I’ve come across a waylaid letter (shades of a Thomas Hardy novel!), cufflinks, a doll and a belt. This time, I found a spool of thread hidden down there in the vines. There’s a story there, but I guess we’ll never know it.
Even though it’s rarely if ever autumn here in the LBC, a huge magnolia tree grows smack dab in the middle of my ivy patch, and it obligingly drops dead brown leaves year-round for a convincing autumnal effect. In an ongoing battle that I undertake two or three times a year, I chop through the green leaves (ivy) and furrow out the brown (magnolia) much to the amusement of my neighbors and the amazement of their lawn caretakers. It’s about a six hour task which I usually break down into three segments or so. This year, I’m happy at least that I can toss the refuse in my brand new compost bin instead of foisting it on my long-suffering garbage man.
It’s the only time I see some of the people who live around me, and since no one looks for anyone crouching in the gutter in my comfortable neighborhood, I’ve glimpsed a couple of juicy goodbye kisses and one bitching fight between people who are unaware of my presence. I always come across items that have been dropped into the snarls of ivy and lost to the world as we know it. Besides the pretty predictable fast food wrappers and cigarette butts, I’ve come across a waylaid letter (shades of a Thomas Hardy novel!), cufflinks, a doll and a belt. This time, I found a spool of thread hidden down there in the vines. There’s a story there, but I guess we’ll never know it.
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