I look out my front door and see little yellow ranunculus (my least favorite flower in the entire world) invading my pitiful flowerbeds and my pastures. According to the German dressage people, they are poisonous to horses. Since horses never eat them, however, it doesn’t really matter. I just hate the way it crowds out all the good stuff. The pastures are also being overrun with purple clover, which I am informed is not clover at all but some sort of wild other non-clover thing. Just shows you how much I know about flowers. I can identify many of the poisonous ones—lilly of the valley being one of my favorite, right up there with hemlock, the poison that killed Socrates. The African violet that one of our more horticultural (and optimistic) members of Malice in Memphis gave me a couple of months ago is not only still alive, but still thriving. That is a miracle. Rappacini’s daughter, whose very touch in the garden killed whatever she touched, has nothing in me. As I have noted in the past, I can kill philodendron. Also Mother-in-law’s tongue. Both are supposed to be indestructible. But a corollary to Murphy’s law is that whenever God makes something indestructible, we manage to make a more efficient destroyer.
On that note, the book is going well, so my house looks as though that destroyer has had a high old time rampaging through it. My bed is not even made. I NEVER leave my bed unmade. I discovered in college that a room where the bed is made looks relatively straight, even if it’s not. A straight room with an UNMade bed, however, looks messy even if you could safely eat off the floor or show your closets to strangers. So, no writing this afternoon. Dusting and picking up and vacuuming and…oh yuck! I’d rather sit on the patio with my Ipad and read mysteries on Kindle. Which is probably what I’ll end up doing eventually. I may also go groom horses. Or even—wait for it—pull a few weeds out of the flower beds.
But don’t hold your breath.