So I’m not gardening in the front today, but partying, of sorts, way in the back of Western Pennsylvania. It’s been an incredibly tough week because teenage daughter, so I packed a pair of flip flops and some dirty t-shirts and drove up I-77 to my in-laws’ place by the side of the Allegheny River.
Even though Paris Hilton is probably desecrating my garden boxes as I type, my day here has gone pretty nicely so far. My seven-year-old daughter, who is not yet old enough to realize how much she has always hated me, brought me breakfast, water, coffee, cherries in a bowl, and an adorable new puppy named Forrest Gump to play with (he’s half Boxer and half Chocolate Lab. Get it?). Then she massaged my neck with her sweet little hands and took me down the bike trail to see the grassy bank where the leatherback turtles lay their eggs. Sadly, the raccoons know about the grassy bank where the leatherbags (that’s a Freudian slip, but I’m leaving it) lay their eggs, too, so there are broken egg-shells in piles here and there.
Then I went on a walk.
And I saw this porcupine:
And I saw this useless sign:
And I saw this t-shirt just chillin’ on a bench:
And, messing with my Pandora music feed, I almost stepped on this:
Which, all in all, wasn’t nearly as bad as changing a wiper blade, in the rain, by the side of Interstate 77. Or teenagers.