Mood:
luckyTopic: "Weeds Way Is Up?"(5)
It is no secret that a mind-numbing drought has strangled the Shire for several years. Frodo has been unable to even wash his prized motorcar, although a commercial establishment utilizing recycled water has served its purpose throughout. For the sake of some ill-definable logic, the water restrictions remain even though an almost daily deluge has brought lake levels far beyond capacity. It will be, according to the "water police," sometime in September before an assessment will be forthcoming. Given that as a preamble, it is hereby noted that the Hobbit is conspiring to evade the law, and that he will not contest enforcement (that is, if they catch him). After all, our forefathers charged all of us to "alter or abolish" if restrictions on freedom become too onerous.
The constant precipitation has given rise to a number of long-forgotten opponents in the Gardens of the Shire. Fungus is present on anything spelled euonymous, and a water-driven plague has befallen Frodo's giant-sized photinia. Worst of all however, in these days preceding the arrival of tiger mosquitos, are the weeds which are everywhere, in almost every conceivable size, shape, and depth of root system. Amid the newly-seeded wildflower islands, unplanned stickers and suckers attach themselves to every brush of a pant leg or furry paw. Frodo is unable to yet determine if some of these brigands might actually have flowers in their future, so he is ignoring these until clarity arrives. Mick, the Wonder Dog, is not amused.
Frodo has a small-wheeled stool, which doubles as a storage compartment for small garden tools. He uses this contraption as a seat while he pushes himself along the floral borders, thereby doing less damage to creaky jointed anatomical features. It gets amusing when he fails to note the downhill slant of the land whilst he concentrates on the botanical foes at hand. Snickers are heard from adjoining lands in Middle Earth, as Frodo bounces, unceremoniously, as if he were jolly Merry, trying to find comfort in a low-slung motorcar, succeeding only in dusting her butt.
The ergonomic success of the Gardens of the Shire is a direct result of the forced removal of that which is conventionally known as grass. Frodo tried Bermuda, Centipede, Blue Grass, Zoysia, and countless less-exotic varieties in years past, all in the futile effort to make things, well, conventional. It was a continuing, and expensive, set of disappointments. There does remain however, one small plot of grass in Frodo's front yard, between the islands, and today, even that small monument to suburban manic behavior has green grass maturing so fast that its growth is visible to the naked eye, or so it seems.
Fellows of the Ring have wondered about the vast space between postings by the Hobbit. They need look no further than the jungles about the Mayan temples at Tulum and Chichen Itza, and similar fate apparently threatening Frodo and Sam . If Frodo is silent on the morrow, he has requested that rescue dogs be called to action in his behalf. Christian Brothers brandy would be a nice touch, in those little kegs, you know.
Frodo does have one task tomorrow, and it will involve the gathering of a few wildflowers to be placed on the small, but deep, grave, now-filled, at the residence of Tom Bombadil. Brandy will follow.
