Who Let the Hens Out?

The way I see it, if the hens are going to lie around in my flower gardens out front, they can help me fix up other flower gardens. I dug up a growing patch of Pugwash Point grass that came with the now-smothered evening primrose I transplanted from the old house we once owned there. I am sorry to see the primrose go because it originally came from the garden of Jean Nelson, the great old lady who lived on Pugwash Point and who, along with her black lab, was a fixture on the road -- and a wonderful women with whom to visit.

So the country boy and I spent yesterday afternoon outside in our yard, working on our various projects. Well, I worked on various projects while he created a fabulous space for our new fire pit, one we can use no matter what direction the wind is blowing (our current fire pit is located off the south end of the house).
As I was sitting on my butt trying to pull a great hunk of sod free, my husband walked by on his way to the garage and said, "Make sure you don't hurt your right hand!" How sweet. He doesn't want me to damage my writing hand -- he's hoping it turns out to be the money maker.

Speaking of, I'm in the middle of editing the Field Notes manuscript these days. The edits are due back to my editor by the 13th so look for me sitting on my butt trying to pull great hunks of words free. And that's all the flogging of that metaphor I'm going to do! But like the chickens getting into the freshly-turned dirt of a garden, I too am spending these early May days scratching up the best bugs to feed my future readers.