Today, M. came by and the kids played in the watery afternoon sun in the backyard while I dug weeds and started clearing the space for my garden.

I’m going to spend a lot of time digging weeds, I think. I have a little garden started – a few strawberries, a blueberry plant – but I need some things before I can commence in earnest. A better spade; some compost from the city; some sand; an edge trimmer that works. I’m going to grow carrots and potatoes, limit myself to one tomato plant – since I’m not a canner, and no one in my house but me likes raw tomatoes – and maybe against the shed wall where there’s a lot of light, try a pepper. They’ve never worked in the past, but I won’t let that stop me.

The kids decided they were going to play farmer, inspired by a long stalks of grass-to-seed they found and chomped between their teeth. So they imagined pigs and chickens, cows and sheep and goats. They fed and slopped the pigs; Ripley declared that he had a gold medal in milking.

At some point, they all switched into horrible southern accents, somewhere between the Texan oil-patch, Wise Guys, and a speech impediment. “Eh. Yo. Pardnah. Digja wanna me to meeyulk da cow?”

I had to hold onto my laughter to enjoy more. M. asked – “can you talk like that, Arwen?”

It is therefore my fault if the children start calling each other “l’il lady.”

Ah-yup.