At the end of May, we put in a sprinkler system. For nearly a week, Boyfriend and my son gouged the land with a trencher, hacked at dry clay with a pickax, and shoveled out rocks the size of infants from my property. I hand-cranked a pipe cutter through a half mile of PVC, while my daughter slopped blue glue over each end so that we could jigsaw the elbows and drains on the line. I learned the jargon quickly, volleying terms like funny pipe and Teflon tape as though they'd always been a part of my vernacular. I learned that Christy's Red Hot Blue Glue sears like a mother if you accidentally get some in your popped blister. I learned that I should not try to excavate a rock from clay with my hands--that doing so will rip my nail from my finger. By the end of the week, I poked a hole in my glove, the kids twice tracked mud through the living room, and Boyfriend was unable to close his fists. He walked around with his hands in a C like a Lego person. But, despite all that, we did it. In true Bradbury fashion, we sat in the parlor and activated the sprinkling system with a tap-tap on my phone.
Goodbye spotty, bleak lawn. Hello greener pastures.
After our laborious week, Boyfriend, the kids, and I went to a family reunion and helped sod my parents' lawn (or rather I did. Boyfriend looked woefully at his Lego hands and I exiled him from the backyard and sentenced him to a nap.) Forty-eight hours later, we boarded a plane for Atlanta. (Guess who doesn't need sprinklers?! Georgians!)

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Write on!
Rena
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