Who am I kidding?!

I am no farmer. I am losing all hope of EVER being a farmer.

First there is the body problem. I have no back - well, more accurately, I have a painful-takes-me-an-hour-in-the-morning-to-even-walk-upright back. I have post-cancer surgery lymphedema on my left side arm/hand/neck. I have a bum right knee. I do not feel strong.

Second, I have no brain - lost my gloves and FAVORITE pair of pruners somewhere out there in that five acres and can't find them to save my life, as they say.

Third, I have killer dogs. For the first time in the past five (six?) years, I have no chickens. Certainly there were coyotes or owls, raccoons or skunks as contributing factors, but it must be admitted that my dogs were witnessed with (more than one) tender, young chicken hanging gleefully from their slobbery chops.

Fourth, I have no mechanical ability. I cannot even get the rototiller started without Andrew's help. And, guess what, he's away at work all day. CONTRIBUTING to the family's bottom-line.

Fifth, I have no help. How did those prairie families do it?! Let me just tell you, my kids are not out there following me along with their little pea seeds. Sure, they are oh-so-happy to be on the receiving end of fresh, vine-picked peas, but therein lies pretty much the extent of their helping.

It has been sunny and warm for the past few days. On Tuesday of this week, I held the first meeting of the Estacada School & Community Garden Steering Committee. There were many in attendance and an exciting mix of school district folk, parents and interested community members. We formed a Visioning Committee of six people (me included), which will meet over the next few weeks to put ideas, goals, and objectives down on paper. At that meeting, one person mentioned that his family plants their peas every year on one daughter's birthday - February 8th. Well, it got me to thinking.

Yesterday, I dug out my seeds. I put two kinds of peas in to soak. Today I went out to the garden with my shovel and turning fork and a borrowed pair of Andrew's gloves.

An hour later, I am back in. The gloves are too stiff. The garden fence is not done so our 8-month old puppy romps and bites at every spade of soil turned, leaving me not much hope for those pea seeds. Our unfinished chicken house haunts me from the top of the orchard - abandoned after the wholesale slaughter of 14 new chicks in two-days time last spring. And the soil is still really too wet here. I tried to make soap. It's bubbly, is drying with a skin and smells funny. My son has been home sick from school all week. He's better today and is trying to play with his sister, but there is lots of foot-stomping and every little frustration sends him to tears. You know how it is - you're better enough to WANT to be back in the real world, but not really better enough to cope with it.

Hmmmm. Come to think of it, that last sentence is a painfully accurate description of the way I've been acting ever since last week's appointment with the Lung Guy about that darn lung nodule. Or, maybe even since finishing treatment. I just don't know what to do with myself.

A new pair of gloves will help. Those lost ones were wearing out anyway. I'm off to the hardware store - sick kid and all. I'm holding onto my hope for those pruners.