The other day, I noticed some scratches on my arms. We don’t own a cat or anything like that, so it took me a minute to figure out what had caused the scratches. A grin formed when I thought about it: yard work.
I am not one to shy away from hard work, including hard, physical work, nor am I one to worry about getting my hands dirty. It makes sense that I’d learn the value of physical labor from growing up on a farm. I never had to do anything too difficult, such as picking grapes, but I certainly did my fair share. (And by the way, farm workers are not given nearly enough respect for their hard work. With Thanksgiving right around the corner, we should all give thanks to the men and women out in the fields, growing and picking all of our wonderful produce!)
Being home owners for over a decade now, my husband and I have put a lot of work into our 1950’s house, both inside and out. We’re on a third of an acre, so we have lots of yard space. I love having a huge backyard! My husband does most of the work, but I definitely help out. The scratches were a result of having to trim back some trees and bougainvillea branches, and then cut them down to size so that they’d fit in the green waste bin. That bougainvillea must love where I planted it, because I rarely ever water it, yet it’s in bloom all of the time. The south-facing wall it’s on gets lots of sun, basically year-round. The bright magenta petals (called bracts) are so beautiful! It grows like crazy, so I constantly have to cut it back.
In case you didn’t know, they have some mean thorns on them so one ought to be careful when pruning them. Whenever I get cut by one of those thorns or scratched by a branch from one of our trees, I imagine that the plant is getting its revenge. Yes, I wear work gloves so my hands are protected, but my arms are not so lucky. Hence, the scratches. Earned with pride of home ownership and hard work.
As a side note, while thinking about the hard work I did on our farm when I was a kid, a memory about the time I got zapped by an electric fence came to mind. It was at one of our family friend’s place. I climbed up the bottom rail of the low, wooden fence where some cows were penned in. There was a thin wire running alongside the top of the fence and I grabbed onto it. My older brother and a cousin were off to the side; they knew exactly what was going to happen to poor, little me. The jerks.
Anyhow, maybe 3 seconds later, the current in that electric fence made its way around and reached me. I was flung off, landed flat on my back, and lay there, stunned. My brother and cousin were laughing, while my body and brain finally registered what had happened. Oh, the tears of pain, embarrassment, and anger! Who else can say they’ve been shocked by an electric fence? Looking back on it now, I can smile, knowing that I was one tough little girl.
As always, thanks for stopping by. ❤