All of these things are true, except that I'm a rural homesteader, not an urban one. The other day, when I met the drunk in the ravine, she was dressed in fashionable slacks, a nice sweater, some killer sunglasses and a fair amount of bling. I, on the other hand, was dressed in flannel-lined overalls, an old t-shirt, and I don't think I'd combed my hair, much less put on any make-up that particular day. I'm sure I looked like somebody's inbred country cousin. She was probably figuring she'd be hearing banjo music any moment.
As far as today goes, I keep dodging in and out of the house as little breaks in the rain happen to install drip lines on the cottonwood trees I planted last week. It's just not home unless there's the lovely strand of cottonwood trees somewhere on your property, in my opinion. These trees are the grand-trees of some I planted in the first home I owned (I pulled striplings off those, which grew into trees at our new house, then pulled striplings off them before we moved last spring, which I'm hoping will grow here). To say I'm sentimental about them is an understatement. I'm hoping with regular water and a few months of winter dormancy they will roar to life in spring and start growing.
And THAT is what I do.
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