This is what my five year old said to me, when she saw the carnage, in the front yard this afternoon. I cut down the flowers, in the front yard today. I slaughtered them. I was told to do this -- no, not by the voices in my head (they were telling me to get a raspberry sundae) -- by my mom. She swears they are "perennials," which, evidently, means they will "grow back, in the Spring."
Let's back up a minute (I get tired of saying "I digress"). We moved into a new house, back in July. The house had a very nicely landscaped yard, but the problem was, all of that pretty stuff was alive. And, I may have mentioned before, we don't do well with living things -- I'm only slightly exaggerating, when I say I'm surprised to see my kids every day. So, we've limped along with the roses and the ferns and the daisies and the black eyed susans, and the pink eyed marthas and all the rest, since July. We're trying to make a good impression on the neighbors, so they don't freak out and think we're going to drive down their property values.
Anyway, the flowers survived -- mostly -- and now my mom (who does know about living things) tells me I need to cut everything back for the winter. So I did. It's a curious feeling. At first it just felt wrong. I felt guilty -- what did those flowers do to me? But I pressed forward, I cut and I chopped, and before I knew it, it was getting easier.
Then I started to like it! I was Edward Scissor Hands! Only not as artistically inclined. He sculpted. I scalped. And that white rose bush? I came, I saw, I pruned. It was a horticultural massacre. Like I said, it's a curious feeling...something between tossing a salad, and mass murder.
I guess I'll have to wait until Spring to see if I did everything right.
This rose is one of the few living things remaining in the front yard.
I like to lull them into a false sense of security.
By the way, does it mean that the 31 posts in 31 days are getting to me, if every activity of the day makes me pause, and wonder about it's blogability?
Is that a word?