My mother was sitting in a garden chair in the shade of a willow tree, drinking ice tea, or lemonade, or a cold beer (I remember lots of details, but not always the tiniest ones,) and it was a hot day and I was digging holes to plant a few shrubs around the base of the willow tree. I'd read that sometimes plant roots hook into other plant roots and they have this symbiotic relationship that forms which makes them both grow better. So there I was, like I was saying, digging away in the heat of the Yakima day, while my Virginia raised mother, always makes me think of mint juleps and y'all for some reason, said to me, "My God, you work like a man."I think I'd stopped what I was doing and leaned on my shovel, wiped the sweat from my brow and spit, then I took out a fag and lit it--cursing her southern upbringing. No, wait a minute, that didn't happen. I've reverted to my inner fiction writer--so easily I subcomb. What really happened is my feelings were hurt. I probably called in the testosterone and let him finish the job. I most likely went in and showered and cooked dinner and nursed the baby.
Those are my pink pants and my orange shirt. I think I'm wearing pearls.
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