I’m having some problems with my Dad completely disapproving of my life choices, from my farm to my boyfriend. And this recent series of storms through left the county looking run over, which is exactly how I felt all day. The roads littered with broken branches, crushed leaves. Runoff bursting out of culverts cut new cracks in the ground, severed the gravel trails on our farm that bridged one field to another.
So I rage gardened.
Hacked the muddy, rocky ground with a shovel, dropped in some tomato plants (romas and Arkansas travelers — I have no faith in the tomato seeds I sowed), and weeded the shit out of the bean and squash rows.
One hopes there’s therapy in this, but there’s not. Only the accidental axing of a few innocent bean crops in my impatience.
Fury labor at its best. I don’t advise.
Jon’s mom is in a care home, but it seems cruel to label a place like that under the euphemism of “care.” The other day, she sobbed and said, “How did we ever get into this mess?”
He said, “Well, Mom, life’s just like that — sometimes it puts us in a mess.”
I like that. But then what? Then what?
You tell your disapproving father, “I really don’t appreciate your stance.” You rage garden. You write. You seep the color out of your pictures in an emo melodramatic way and post it all on the Internet. Like everyone else in your generation.