No hippie’s garden
Today I enjoyed rare circumstances.
My commute home on 285, normally a case-study in poor choices, actually went smoothly.
I got home to Decatur and my cat raced toward the back door and squawked loudly. I am convinced my cat is a reincarnated person who has a check list of cat-like things he knows he’s supposed to do. He knows he’s inside the Cat Matrix, which means at some point he realized he was reincarnated as an animal that lacks thumbs.
The ice cream man rolling down the street played a little victory tune as I opened the door for my cat. It’s May and this is one of the few Mondays in recent memory where the chore of taking out the garbage wasn’t complicated by ice-rain mud.
My wife is growing her tomato plants and we are glad that we aren’t sharing our garden with hippies, like we did when we lived in Chattanooga. The hippies informed us that insecticides, fertilizer and the other reasonable measures that sustain a garden from infancy to adulthood were not allowed.
The Chattanooga birds ate most of our tomatoes that year and never tipped us.
We fully intend to employ all of the modern technology at our disposal. Our tomatoes will be fat, red and possibly glow in the dark. Future generations of birds, the ones with clever parents, will instruct their babies that the tomatoes we grow are not safe to eat.
We’ll have the tomato sandwiches all to ourselves, at last. And peppers. We’re growing some of those, too.