Insensitive

There was a time in my youth when I was hyper-sensitive. If anyone criticized me, I took it personally, cried rivers of tears; my ego crushed. My whole life, I've battled depression and low self-esteem. It's been brought to my attention that some of my blogs have crossed the line of ethics, decency and good taste. Publishing those stories - without considering anyone else's feelings first - showed a depraved indifference to the feelings of others. Sometimes it takes getting hit (virtually) over the head for me to realize how serious my transgressions were. When I realized how heinous my actions were, I found myself transported back to the principal's office, feeling about one inch tall. It called to mind the old children's song: Nobody loves me, everybody hates me; I'm gonna at some worms. Big fat juicy ones, squish squash squishey ones,sitting in the garden eating worms. There are several versions of the lyrics on the web. I am sorry; mea culpa. I love you, and hope that, in time, you can forgive me. Whenever I do something bad, or say something so far out of left field that rends the fabric of our relationship, I retreat to my bed for days, thinking about how and if I should kill myself. Of course I won't do it, but I am not a worthwhile person who deserves to be loved. How could I have been so callous? How can I ever make it up to you?

Culled Posts by Request

    Today I did what I could to appease you by removing several posts that mentioned our family members, most of whom are long gone. I understand your objections. I heard you loud and clear. 

    One caveat:    Just today, I learned that my story, Nana's Porches, is going to be published this fall as part of a regional anthology. That one is out of my hands. 

    It's every aspiring writer's dream to get published. Can you please just be happy for me about it? 

The Garden Calls

Today is the first day of spring! 💮

I've been trying to weed every warm day. The night temps are below freezing, so I dress in long sleeves and a sweatshirt. It's hard to believe I was wearing shorts last week.

My problem is that I have too many flower beds. I finished weeding most of the back yard beds. I still need to tackle the hyacinth bed in back and the hostas on the south side of the house.

Still to do: weed the hostas on the north side, ALL the monkey grass in the front yard, plus the hostas behind the shed. There are a variety of plants on the west side and hostas (again) on the east side. I need to weed a bit more behind the bushes along the fence line. The front yard garden is almost as long as the house.

I go through garden gloves as if they were made of paper. I'm not going to buy cloth gloves any more. They get wet, holey fingers too easily.

I love my perennials, but the down side is they multiply; hence my moving these plants to new locations. And I keep getting new perennials from one of my Scrabble partners. 

Once we're done with the frigid night temperatures, I have to find (or make) space for two annual flowers: Texas bluebonnets and a mix of wildflowers.  

A Busy Time

I've had my nose to the grindstone this week. On Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday, I had an appointment with a different doctor. I gardened yesterday (despite the c-c-cold), which left me too little time to write. Between yesterday and today, I wrote similar stories about my mother's origin in North Carolina in response to two different writing contests. One contest opened today; right as the other one closed.  I tried submitting the latter three times.

Why, you might ask? I kept messing up the email address for the Franklin County Arts Council. The first time, I added an extra C to the name. The second time, I deleted a needed letter. 

At least with my third attempted email, I did not receive the dreaded "Email address not found" message. So, I know that PayPal processed my entry fee. I'm hoping the judges like how I described coming full circle to North Carolina by following in my mother's footsteps.