The other day I told my husband that I wished I had a little piece of land with some chickens and a cow and plenty of space to garden.
The only problem is that I could barely handle it twenty years ago when we had exactly that. I worked at the market garden from before dawn to after dusk; we could never find where the chickens hid the eggs; the cow broke out of her stall and got into the corn mash and died, and the flowers got eaten by the goats.
I never had the time I would have needed to putter in a flower garden anyway.
At sixty two and sixty nine years old, I doubt that we could do much better than we did back then when we were in our prime.
I do long for my own little piece of Heaven, but at sixty two I guess I can hold off a few more years and wait until I get to garden in the real thing.
In the mean time I do have a little bit of Heaven - sort of. The weeds do keep coming up and the rose leaves do get eaten by the nasty little green worms, but beyond all that there is just a teeny tiny glimpse of what Heaven must be like.
