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Feedin' the need
I am such a predictable little addict that it's pathetic. Every year about this time, without fail ...spring throws out a teaser day. On this day, no matter what's on my agenda, I follow the same routine time after time. There's a monkey on my back, after all. The order of things is not always the same ( that'd be obsessive-compulsive :) but all the chores get a turn.

The activity commences as I stroll around the yard and notice a rake leaning against a tree. Pin oak leaves, the last to fall....are always everywhere in February because I ran out of steam at the end of the autumn chores. I walk past the rake then turn around and grab it to make some piles. Along the way I stop to inspect the now visible green shoots from the gazillion bulbs I've planted over the years....hyacinth, buttercups..but no tulips yet.

I admire the crocuses and pick the first daffodil as a celebratory gesture to myself. Inspection of the buds on all of the flowering bushes is next. After I light the piles of leaves, my wandering takes me out to where pecan limbs are scattered all over the massive yard, dropped from the hundred year old trees in the wind and ice of winter. I pile these up and head off with clippers to give the monkey grass a haircut.

From experience I know that inevitably a late February ice storm will drop more limbs. A freeze will get many of the buds that are straining for warmth to burst open. Another day will find me raking and burning again to finish up all the little piles as the dogs run through and scatter them. But then, one day.....it will happen for real.

The redbud trees will turn purple and the forsythia yellow. Red and purple and yellow tulips will appear and will be joined by a parade of narcissus all in a row across edge of the lane. Robins will work the yard pulling up worms and bluebirds will hatch from their ancient house on the fencepost. There will be fresh asparagus for those dearest to me.

I will then be a prisoner to the full force of my addiction! The smell of mulch will permeate the air as I begin to actively seek the high that comes from growin' stuff. The frenzy continues as I hit the nurseries and spend the grocery money on perennials and dirt and hanging baskets full of color. Even this, though, will not fill the void. I will not be satisfied until the mower is in operation and the tomato plants are in the ground. Only then, will I rest easy, crack open a beer and fire up the grill.

Hello. My name is Poopie. And I'm a gardenoholic.


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