After Winter's Frightful Sting (70 Degrees in February - Waiting For the Shoe to Drop in March) The Garden Begins Anew

NOTE IN PICTURE BELOW: SEE THE LITTLE BRANCH STUBS ON THE BACK TREE I WAS HANGING FROM WHILE SAWING AWAY AT THE BRANCHES ABOVE? WAS THAT ACTION  PRECARIOUS? RISKY? DANGEROUS? STUPID?

YES TO ALL!

 
So, there I was, at the top of a 16 foot ladder, sawing branches off the neighbor's trees, that, when fully foliant (I may have just made up a word. I should contact Webster's.), would shadow the top garden (Nick) for most of the day. Hanging from a branch stump, doing a job that Bitterman and Furious George were actually MADE for doing, I looked at the top rung of the ladder and noticed a little sign: MAX Weight 200 pounds. 

 
I did not worry because my name is not Max, and, I figured that if I kicked off one of my Frankenstein Little Chick Corrective Shoes that I would just about make the weight. Plus or minus a few pounds.

I know. More than a few.

​I sawed away at enough of the branches to fill a trash barrel, but the worst offending branch eluded me, as my withered arm just about gave up the ghost on the previous tree limb.
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Don't worry -- I practiced ladder climbing safety: I cleared almost all the sharp, pokey stuff from under the ladder and planned to fall in the soft earth of the garden, a thin layer of cow manure breaking my fall. Also, I told my mother in law to call in an hour and, if I didn't answer, to call 911.

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As for the garden itself, we're still in February and I'm already dithering about the garden and ready to start seeds. Becky won't let me take over the kitchen table for my Little Redneck Farming Starter Kit (with miniature indoor diesel tractor and year-old cow for manure) until the company leaves this weekend.

The company is my daughter and some of her lawyer friends. Heck, they'd understand that they have to eat standing up because the table is buried under seed pods and starter soil. I'll tell them it's just like the old days when we ate at Stuckey's.

If they complain, I'll say, "So, sue me."

​That's when the fun should start.
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​Mr. Bitterman should be on Amtrak at the moment, heading back from visiting Mom in Anaheim, where she works at some theme park doing her impression of a toucan in some animatronic bar. 

Meanwhile, Furious George sits in the basement all day watching Castle reruns and the World War Two Channel, then, drops next door to the Batshit Crazy Neighbor's house for cocktails and "The Yelling Guys" on Fox News. He does live a life.

NEXT:
​       PLOTTING OUT THE GARDEN