I walked outside after the rain, smelling the fresh, earthy aromas while the breeze cooled my heated skin. I’d gone out for a few reasons. I had to get out of the house after being voluntarily cooped up due to our incredible heat wave. It really isn’t the heat, it’s the humidity that is going to kill me. I don’t really like breathing water.
I also had to get my son bare bottomed for a little while. Poor guy just got off the antibiotics and – predictably – he acquired a yeast infection. I SWEAR, I stopped just short of pumping yogurt and probiotics into him with an IV. He was covered. It’s kind of poetic justice though. I keep telling myself I’m going to try more natural treatments on his delicate constitution. Then I go ahead and follow the slightly misguided advice of my physicians and pediatricians. They can’t help it that the pharmaceutical companies have brainwashed them.
Anyway, I also needed to check on my poor garden. It’s been neglected a bit. I am NOT a green thumb. An ex of mine gave me this beautiful (hot pink) plant for Valentine’s Day one year. I kid you not – within three days, that thing had passed on to plant heaven. Or so I thought. I gave it to my aunt who seemed sure there was a little green left in its poor branches.
Three YEARS later, it finally expired – and it wasn’t even her fault.
I kill things. It’s just in my blood I guess.
So I checked on my neglected garden to assess the damage.
Lo and behold, I find a beautiful red tomato, just ready for picking. There was a small hole at the top where it might have given an insect a midmorning snack. Otherwise, it looked wonderful. It tasted amazing. And it gave me hope. My garden might actually make it through the summer in spite of my best (worst) efforts to kill it.
Because believe me. The heat is NOT the problem.
It’s all me.