once a farmer

In my renewed effort to enjoy all my jellybeans, I decided to join the dog when he rang the bell hanging on the backdoor, his "command" for me to open the door for him. He has me trained pretty well, and I'm sure he would agree. It's a beautiful morning, sunny already but not too hot. The dog does what he usually does -- plops down on a sunny patch of grass. I have part of the newspaper with me, so I read for a bit, learning what I can about the new PS4 vs. Xbox debate, and what percentage of people actually eat breakfast everyday.

After a while, the dog is still lying there, and I've run out of reading material. I feel an undeniable desire ... to do some gardening. I hop inside, grab my hat, my gloves, and my clippers. It's time to get to work.

I start with deadheading the roses, which are blooming much better this year since I remembered to prune them before Super Bowl Sunday (a tip a neighbor gave me at the first house we lived in, and I have tried to adhere to, even as the Super Bowl has been moved back into February). I trim back the vining thing with the little white flowers, so pretty to look at but an annoyance in the current layout. I will need to stay on this task throughout the summer, or it will get too friendly with the fig tree, pulling it into its grasp and strangling its limbs.

The dog is now rolling around, thrashing his head about and growling at some phantom playmate until he stops, breathing heavily, and continues what he was doing before: lying on the grass. I turn back to the yardwork, and I remember a discussion with my sister when we talked about our mutual love of gardening, and I can hear her saying, "I think our ancestors must have been farmers. I'll be pulling weeds out of muddy ground, and I always think about rice farmers, and how we probably had ancestors who did that." I think she's right. Or, perhaps, it's just being raised by parents who spent their childhoods in Japan, where nature and gardening are just treated with a different level of respect than it is in our American culture. We spent hours as kids pulling weeds and messing around with bugs, and I actually thought it was fun. Our garden always looked great, thanks to my parents and a couple of uncles who knew bonsaiand would help my dad trim our shrubs to perfection.

I also remember one day, pulling weeds with my husband and telling him what my sister said about our family coming from farmers. Without missing a beat, he stood there wearing a pair of my dad's old gardening gloves, both of us covered in a thin film of grime from being outside all day, and replied: "Yeah. I think my ancestors must have been merchants."Can I get a rimshot? Hey, diggy diggy ... the guy definitely knows how to make me laugh. And, I think he's right. Some of us are born to be close to the earth, and some of us would rather go make some money and pay somebody to do that. Luckily, I like being out here, and I have a dog who will remind me to come outside and tend to the roses.