"No stress on the wound until I see you next week," announced the doctor.
"Doc", I say, "This is my diggin' leg and it's plantin' time."
The city boy looks baffled.
"Tell you what," I offer, "I'll slap some duct tape over it before I go out to the back 40."
An awkward silence then he slowly pushes an instruction chit towards me.
I'm thinking there might be a mental health referral on his desk next week. One of us is going to need it before this is over.
It will not be me because I haven't cracked
while living like this
|the orange is gone-hooray|
or trying to raise my plant babies like this