Shoemaker's Children

Before drifting off to sleep last night, my last thought was of "The Shoemaker's Children" a folk tale, fable or whatever.  It was about the shoemaker who was so busy making shoes for the king and queen that his own children went barefoot.  And I had a vague thought of myself, rolling garden hoses all day at work into perfect circles of neatness and my own hoses tangled and messy in my garden at home.

And that, dear readers, is very wrong.  Why am I a better custodian of things at work than I am at home? Yesterday, I carefully (thoughtfully) pruned, root pruned and repotted two very aged geraniums for a customer.  My own geraniums are out on the sunporch.  Neglected.  No thoughtful care given to their needs or wants.  I don't have a dedicated potting bench at home where I can be messy, and a garbage can alongside for the messy bits to be swept.  Making a dirty mess in the house isn't fun.  The garage is packed. The shed too small.  Excuses. Excuses. Excuses.

I awoke this morning with a plan of action (roll my garden hose in a perfect circle).  I'm still sitting here not doing anything.  Well, I did search my magazine picture files for a picture of shoes.  Riley is going in and out and wanting me to be doing the same, with him.  He probably wants a walk.  I have more dirt to distribute in the garden beds and roses to plant.  And perennials to dig out of the planter containers and set into the garden beds.  And violets to pull out and compost.  And Iris to cut back.  The sun is shining.  It's warming up.  A good outdoor garden day.  The maples are all orange and yellow. Pretty.

Once I get started, I can keep going until exhausted.  I just need to start.