Summer has camped out at the Peregrine household, making herself quite at ease, all 90+ degrees of herself. I slip the Labrador ice cubes and frozen bananas to cool her down as the Saint and I break out the fans and water jugs. Summer flits her radiant, sun bleached hair and twitters about, remarking about the rising level of humidity and how much she enjoys melting things…
Summer officially began last week. I love all the seasons but if I were asked to rank them they would follow as this, with the first being the most liked:
Summer is a time of great production–a humming of activity and doing. Everything is growing, producing and dancing in nature’s rhythms. Fall is a slowing down of the dance, a gathering up of cloaks and grains and storing food away. In Winter, the dancers freeze and rest. In Spring we thaw and prep ourselves all over again.
Lightning has hit twice. I have won the Terrible Poetry Contest for the second glorious time. And everyone rejoiced and roasted Oxford commas over cozy bonfires.
Want to join in on the terribleness? The new contest opens tomorrow. Check out Chelsea’s page for details.
My entry for KaylaAnAuthor’s Summer Poetry contest. Click here for details on how to join in and to check out the other entries.
Thanks for reading.
I have a hose bin. It’s a quaint, pretty thing. It was a requested birthday gift, three years ago, something to help the Saint and I maintain our yard. Think of a beige plastic box with a feeder reel, a rod, a lid and a hand crank lever. You hook up the hose to the back, hook that up to your water spigot, and bam–you have a stored hose. Roll, unroll and off you go.
I used to think these watering hose bins were classy things. Instead of having hoses laying in driveways baking in the sun, or shaded underneath awnings like an idly waiting Boa Constrictor, hoses could be contained and camouflaged in garden beds. No more tripping, more more lugging, no more unsightliness. No longer do I entertain such foolish notions. This summer, as I stood shaded by my Japanese Elm tree, I went to war with the hose bin yet again. And I wondered exactly, just exactly, how many times a hose can get stuck and refuse to come out!
When the Saint came home from work, I merely pointed to the hose bin. By this time it was knocked over, dragged across the landscaping rocks and pinned between the front porch corner and an unlucky Holly bush. In my hands, I grasped about four feet of green rubber hose–a hard sought victory, a well earned prize.
My patience had disappeared.
Continue reading “Me, The Hose Bin & Writing: The Battle Continues”
My entry for Pia Majumdar’s flash fiction contest. Enter here* and join the fun!