The Tillerman is sore and happy. We dug four new gardens at our farm, one on either side of the front door, one by the side of the house where the chickens and cats sun themselves, one over by the pasture fence where Florence planted some flowers of her own. That one is for her. I thought running the tiller would be easy, it was not. It bucked, stalled, gripped and slid all day, much like wrestling a small horse. Every part of me is sore, I am one giant ache. We went to Momma’s because I was way too tired to make a pizza and Maria is getting a fire going in the living room.

It was a great day. Ignoring much advice and many warnings, we picked a rainy, windy, cloudy day. We planted wildflowers, daffodils, we transplanted Florence’s daffodils and peonies, and I took a half dozen packets of seeds and dug small ditches for them and covered them up. The chickens will love them if they find them, scratching the dirt. The chickens will also eat beetles and other things that bother flowers.  Nature takes its own course.

Tomorrow, we will set out in search of some perennials. My attitude about gardens irritates Maria a bit, she is more patient than I am, more nurturing and can wait. I have become a warrior for color, an addict, photography has done this to me and I want flowers now, or if not tomorrow then at the earliest possible time. Things are looking up. I love my gardens and took a vow today to water and weed them faithfully, and to photography the hell out of them.