|Mission Beach! Kids on boards behind us!|
Now understand that if we did not irrigate we would live in a dust pile. We already live in a dust pile, but irrigation ensures that it includes dusty trees and shrubs. It is nice to imagine that without contraptions and civilization and modern conveniences we'd be living in a paradise where a meal was as easy as reaching up into the trees. But here, in the time and place in which I actually live, we rely on electricity to power the well which pumps a glorious 45 mpg and could potentially create a lush Eden out of our little slice o'paradise... except that I minced the irrigation lines. And I am really sorry about that.
|Coyote standing on his own two feet|
Generally, I love, and have always loved, mowing the lawn. I longed for the chore when I was a kid, even throwing a tantrum one late summer afternoon when I was called in to set the table and/or make the salad while my brother was made to mow the lawn. I wanted a chore swap, yelled and cried for a chore swap, called them sexists and said they were preventing both of us from being complete individuals. Also, I loved the wild, juicy, green smell of mowed lawn and and I wanted in on that. But I was told they feared me running over my foot with the mower. Ok. So. I was a little dreamy and my head was in the clouds and I admit that there may have been some likelihood of that, given the number of time I sliced myself making our nightly salads. I suppose we can call ourselves lucky that, to-date, I have only wounded irrigation lines, lines that I have so diligently tried to avoid, leaving narrow strips of unmowed mohawks across the lawn.
|This shell doesn't sound right|
|Mulin Rouge Sunflower|
And that's how I got "Sexy Dude" (named after Patsy Cline's car... I think, I can't remember now.) I spray painted it pink but with all the dust it just looks like unwashed red. It's got a wonky tire that my dad taught me how to change, which sort of redeems that major gender/chore fuck up of my youth.
|Standing by the 6' Rudbeckia|