Monday was tough. Mounds of brittle leaves and pine straw had to be raked and burned before we could plant. Muscles I’d neglected for months protested. Also, my husband never stops, so I felt like a slacker when I took a break.
Thankfully our toil was rewarded with temperatures in the mid-seventies and an exhilarating breeze. Still, after eight hours of yard work, I was sweat-soaked, grimy, and famished.
Tuesday morning my posture resembled a candy cane. But I hobbled outside, creaking like the Tin Man. My husband cranked his chainsaw and whacked drooping palm fronds and oak branches that had been decimated by Jack Frost. I saluted the fallen appendages and hauled them out of his way…
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