I am sitting in the backyard, ensconced upon our one and only deck chair. On my lap is my PowerBook. The computer is cold because I have just retrieved it from the basement. There have been so many tornado watches and warnings this month that I have taken to leaving all unused computer equipment in a closet in the basement; taking it out only while I am actually using it. Therefore, the PowerBook, having recently been taken from the downstairs closet, is cold.
We purchased plants from our friendly local organic farmer this year. They arrived on Wednesday night and today Attila is planting. We are putting in a few varieties of peppers, tomatoes, and basil. These are the only edibles we will plant this year. The only perennial edible in the garden is the blackberry thicket, which sprang wild from the now defunct strawberry patch.
I find it very odd that "The City" is surrounded by much of Canada's prime farmland, yet fresh local produce is seldom available to our average consumer. If you have a car and the time, you can access freshly grown fruits and vegetables. That means we are fine; we can get what we want. It also means that anyone without a car or time or money is unable to access these goods. Local fresh produce is not cheap and plentiful. The elderly, the mentally ill, the poor, those without cars; these are just a few of the groups that must buy what I consider to be inferior imported produce while living in one of Canada's premier agricultural areas.
Attila and I feel very fortunate to have access to the finer things in life.
There is a stiff cool breeze blowing but the sun is strong so that sitting outside is quite pleasant. The petals on the dogwood trees have turned brownish and are falling, blanketing the deck with withering white wisps. A dove coos from behind the neighbor's garden shed. Birds call lazily from the trees in the bush behind the yard. It is peaceful. I am expecting "G" next door to come out to his garden shed soon. All this listening to nature must be getting on his nerves by now, urging him to find a noisy toy to fire up. There is no sign of him however; perhaps he is not home.
Attila is tending the gardens. Trimming a shrub, planting coleus, topping up the planters with soil; he is contentedly moving around the yard, master of all he surveys. I watch him with interest, deeming it wise to offer advise or comment only when asked. He is not asking, so I am watching with detached interest.
During the next week, I will be contentedly working in the yard, master of all I survey. Attila will be at work. I will wander through the gardens watching for the details that have escaped Attila. We best work together as a detached team, conjoining only to analyze and discuss what we have done, and plan to do. The overall efficiency of this approach is quite acceptable. It works for us.
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