The tempest May 20 2018

It was time for the dreaded annual cleanup of our small front yard. I hate gardening, I am not good at it, but in the spring, it must be done.

I bought ten small plants that reportedly are hardy and fine with being dry. That seemed to be a good start since I never water the yard. Each plant should grow to cover about two feet of the barren spaces.

Determined to get it over with, I came home from work and carried my tools out front.

It started well. I pulled weeds and cleaned up the edging. Then I began digging a hole to place one of my new plants. I hit an ant colony, and what seemed like millions of tiny ants swarmed out.

They overran my shoes, leaving little bites on my bare ankles. They raced up under my pants leg nipping as they went, and stung my butt, and . . .  you get the idea.

“#$&*%#!!!” A tempest was unleashed, shouting words that would have made my mother frown and thinking others that would have made her blush.

I stomped one foot on the other trying to kill them, and flailed my muddy hands through my hair and over my face and body trying to get rid of them. By then, I had no idea if I was covered in ants or just imagining them.

Shedding my shoes, I stomped my feet to dislodge anything still clinging to my skin, raced into the house, ran upstairs, and jumped in the shower. There I peeled off my clothes and sealed them in a bag to take downstairs to the washer. I scrubbed my body and washed my hair until it seemed to be enough.  

Yet as I sit in my PJs writing this, I still feel like I’m crawling.

I think I know what my dreams will be tonight.

You can see my “Tempest” painting here.

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