Country Living

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My plantings above this rock wall have gotten weedier and weedier ever since I discovered a copperhead amidst them.  It had been weeks since we last saw it and I'd begun to hope that it had died of gunshot wounds after disappearing into a crevice.

Encouraged by this hope and invigorated by the cooler weather, I took my hoe and went to attack the weeds. My procedure was to poke around with the hoe in the area I planned to weed, keeping an eye out for any slithery movement and then, after seeing none, to plunge in and pull weeds.

After about a half an hour of cautious weeding, I was nearing the area where the copperhead was last seen. Poke, poke--SONOFAGUN!!!-- there it was, heading for the same place it disappeared last time.

Reader, I took my hoe and hacked the poor critter to death, kinda like that woman in the BC comics. I really felt bad about it--but that's just too close to the house for comfort.

Of course, there may be more. Cautious weeding will continue.

A Memory Revised

No, I'm not still canning maters. But I was reminded of a story I've always loved  -- and only heard the end of a few days ago when my friend Chick, who was also a friend of my mother and father, came to lunch. 

The story, as I originally heard it, was  that thirty-some years ago, long before I'd met Chick and when we had first moved to the farm, Chick encountered my mother at a party in Tampa. 

Making small talk, she asked my mother about her daughter's move to the mountains. Many Tampa people had summer homes in NC -- perhaps ours was like that? . . .

"Oh, said my mother, no doubt rolling her eyes, "Vicki leads a very different life. . .  (ominous pause) . . . she cans!" 

Well, that much has always cracked me up. But now Chick has told me the rest of the story which seems, somehow, even funnier.

"But," protested Chick, who makes all sorts of lovely jellies and jams, "You know, I can . . "

Unmollified, my mother lifted an eyebrow. "Tomatoes?" she sniffed.