Dozer, the bulldog

Dozer, the bulldog
Dozer: Spring training is upon us!

Backstage at Reggae on the River, 2017...

Backstage at Reggae on the River, 2017...
The author of Mark's Work

Hollyhocks

Hollyhocks
Why I grow flowers

HappyDay Farms bees are happy bees.

HappyDay Farms bees are happy bees.
Air-borne bees

HeadSodBuster and BossLady at the coast

HeadSodBuster and BossLady at the coast
Love is the greatest power.

Beauty abounds!

Beauty abounds!
Crossing the Eel River at French's Camp

If you've seen one butterfly, you've seen 'em all, said no one ever.

If you've seen one butterfly,  you've seen 'em all, said no one ever.
Butter in the fly...

July Jewels

July Jewels
Bees to the Kingdom

My souvenir from Reggae on the River, 2017

My souvenir from Reggae on the River, 2017
Something I have always wanted...

Mahlon Masling Blue

Mahlon Masling Blue
My friend and brother.

Mark's E-mail address

bellspringsmark@gmail.com

Wednesday, May 24, 2017

Speed Bumps of Life

Speed Bumps of Life

My expectations, great or otherwise, influence me every day of my life, and far more so than I like. If I think something is going to be easy to do, and it turns out to be the reverse, it can knock me for a loop. Normally, when I am loopy, I just blame my bong, but I can’t do that so easily with expectations.

Unless it’s a social event, in which case there are no bets to call off in the first place, expecting a piece of cake, and having it be fruitcake, makes for hard times. Expecting a job to go quickly, based on incorrect expectations, makes the job ten times worse because there is so much room for expansion in my head.

I can turn a gopher mound into Chimney Rock as quick as a toke, and like The Chimney, sometimes it’s hard to get back down from those lofty expectations. We’re not talking life-changing here, just day-changing. As I have always said, it’s not the big things that knock me down, it’s the little things.

I call them the speed bumps of life.
Take the South Orchard, please, as far away as you can. It’s a jungle in there, where only a few weeks ago, there was an orchard, complete with fruit trees and nine terraced rows awaiting 120 tomato plants.

As carefully as I have kept pace with the rest of my complex when it comes to the exploding weed population, I dropped the ball on the orchard. So when I went out there Monday afternoon, my thought had been that I would just knock this out, real quick-like, and go in and watch the Giants club the Cubs.

Wrong, again. Not about the Giants, but about “real quick-like.”

I obviously had the wrong tool, the weed-eater taking a back seat to a chainsaw, when I saw the weeds towering over my head. Was that a tree-sitter over there in that ryegrass? OK, maybe not that bad, but you get my drift.

I had to make two passes over everything, one at knee height, and a second one in the conventional manner; otherwise, the weeds choked the life out of the spinning head of the weed-eater. It was hot, I was thirsty and the law of diminishing returns reared its ugly head all too soon.

Or, in reality, not soon enough. When I returned to the scene yesterday, 24 hours later, expecting Godzilla, all I got was your garden variety lizard. I started by redoing a portion alongside the orchard, but still outside, and it went smoothly.

Encouraged, I went to the far end of the orchard, where I had done the prep work for the tomatoes, and started there. It was easy because I had already been there in March. Now I had a fine chunk already under wraps, and it was game on. 

I have about another hour or so to go today, but the rest is a mere formality, now that I have ironed out the logistics.

Do I learn from these experiences? I try to. When I told Gluten-Free Mama this morning, that I was doing some foundation work at SmallBoy’s spot that would take three days, I stopped myself.

“You know, three days…four? Or five! Whatever.”

You know?


No comments:

Post a Comment