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I’ve spent the past several weekends out in the garden. Rain or shine, there I was. Raking up leaves (and sorting out dog poop — a long story) and building compost piles, and oh, yes, transplanting itty bitty lettuce seedlings (think microgreens) in the pouring down rain. So I guess I really am a gardener.

I work from home, in a corner of my living room, and on nights when it’s really chilly, I tend to quit early and go to bed. And by really chilly, I mean 68 degrees. But there I was, out in 40-degree weather, dripping wet, but I kept going. After a while, I had to actually look over my glasses because the lenses were too wet to see through, and my jacket was too wet to dry them off. And that was just fine by me.

Sure, I would’ve preferred to have not been soaked to the skin, but since that wasn’t an option (and the seedlings absolutely had to get out of the flat that day,) through the muck I slogged.  As I told my mother, “I’m not really a typist.  I’m a gardener who types to support her gardening habit.”

Anyway, I started off 2010 saying that this is going to be my garden year.  This year, there will be a harvest.  A harvest for us, not for the bugs/gophers/etc.  This year, I will grow a years worth of something, anything, and I will put my various canners, jars, etc to good use.  This will be my garden year. It almost became a mantra.

Until the three straight weekends of raking, de-pooping, compost pile building, etc.  Now the mantra is:  This had better be my garden year.  And I really hope it will.

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