Thursday, April 15, 2010
The Blossom of Youth Ebbs Away
The last few years, this guy has worked mightily, but was foiled in the end by the onslaught of the voracious tent caterpillars. Last Saturday, a cluster of the little bastards was breeding in the crock of the nearby crab apple tree. So I took aim at them with a 50-50 mixture of ammonia and water and then wiped the tree clean of the nest and the insects. This year, I plan to put little nylon socks around the fruits to protect them from any eaters, but I doubt I will win. The raccoons will likely think the nylon mere relish for their fruit meals.
I have now finished all major heavy lifting in the garden, which waits only for just a little warmer weather before I can set out the tender annuals and vegetable plants. There remains one corner where I might dig out some tough lilies to give more space for the squash to spread, but only if I feel mighty and strong will I do it.
Meanwhile, my poor body is aching more than it should. The feet have this awful deformity that the doctor calls bunion, which sounds likes the diseases that plagued the characters of an historical novel, like pleurisy, dyspepsia, or gout. It's an ailment that grandmother suffered. Her poor feet when pulled out of her ugly orthopedic shoes always frightened me. And even as I remain convinced that I am too young to be old, I can't ignore that when Grandma was my age, she actually was a grandmother. Bunion, what a disgusting word.
Just up from the feet, the knees are holding strong, but giving off warning signs. Along the side if I press on the muscle, after a good workout or run, I can solicit a solid, sharp ache or pain. Above the knees, the hips are really a mess. In the seated position, hips are happy, but unfolding them to rise to standing, there appears a dry rubbing as if I needed to oil them like Dorothy's Tin Man. "MMoilcan!"
The lower back has weighed in also. Last week, after coming out of a shoulder pose in yoga, a spasm took hold and deep yoga breathes proved almost fruitless in seeking relief.
I remember my father being old before his time. He would complain of ailments and bemoan youth culture. What a surprise it was to figure out that he was the same age as the rock stars he disdained. I am not old. I am not old. I won't succumb. Come on body. Be strong.
This weekend, I'm going to dig out the rest of those lilies. Roar! The Putterer