Sunday Shimmy

Sunday mornings are the best. Waking slowly, cuddling up with the puppies, drinking a strong cup of freshly brewed coffee (the first sips are always the best!) and taking time to talk to each other.

Our youngest son is, inquisitive, sharp, funny and sturdy souled. The Sunday Morning Takeover starts the precise moment he enters the den to dominate the paper. He then carrys on to narrate the morning conversation topics. He is the self appointed, epic champion of all knowledge in our family. Usually, my husband and I have to defend our opinion (on everything!) and answer to “Why?” about 8 billion times before satisfying his deep curiosity.

Our oldest son cares only to look at the Best Buy and Hastings ads, check out up his favorite comics, and then move downstairs to play music. This manuver is expertly orchastrated and happens very rapidly.

This Sunday It was just me and the husband on deck. We were chatting away when I found a page advertising a screaming deal for a outdoor greenhouse. It would be perfect in the garden. You see, I was one woman who desperately needed a hobby. D.E.S.P.E.R.A.T.E.L.Y! Anything to deviate from the routine of working, cleaning, laundry, working, cleaning, laundry, working, cleaning, and laundry and drinking a little wine.

A garden. A simple raised bed garden. Awesome!

Two years ago we started with a couple of raised beds. It was a nightmare trying to keep our beloved Bichon Frise from taking every opportunity to jump in and dig like she was possessed with the devil himself. The look of sheer satisfaction for poor behavior shining on her dirty face was the motivation to build the fence.

Our simple garden has grown exponentially. 8 beds in all, oh ya – it’s now colossal in size and productivity (never go halfway) as well as a hobby for us all. Spying the ad, I thought I’d share my thoughts with the husband. Yes, a greenhouse would be an excellent addition to the garden this year!

In reply, my husband gets up for a kleenex, turns around to walk back and says to me, “Why don’t you shimmy on down to the store during your lunch hour next week and cram it in your Prius”. He then proceeds to dance the dance of the ground-hog from that golfing movie. A little hip gyrations and giggle to boot.

I reply. Number one. Shimmy belongs on the dance floor. We (as a couple) have not treaded a dance floor since before we had the children. Our couple dance is a lot like a lumberjack jumping after dropping the butt of an axe on his boot. It’s not pretty and certainly something that does not need to be described with any additional details. Number 2. Where did that smart ass remark come from? Number 3. I can tell you where, from the warped brain of a man who has used humor to dispel the sheer terror of losing control of his life.

Humor is great medicine. So is talking like pirates. Sometimes my husband does both with the boys. Gotta love it.

Well, by the end of the morning The Lumberjack landed a date with destiny to shimmy himself down to the store over the weekend, pick up the greenhouse and assemble it. Maybe he will let the dog in the garden area to attempt a frantic dig in the frozen dirt….

~ Wendy Frye


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