Let’s make something.
I make things all day, every day. I’ve made so many things of one sort or another that it’s hard for me to go anywhere and not see one. That’s gratifying. Why don’t yo make something? I’ll help.
The winter is grinding here in the Northeast. It will be gloomy here by the shore until Memorial Day, and never really gets warm until July Fourth. I need to think about spring. How about you? There’s no better way to think about spring than to make a window box.
You can make it now, and have it ready for the first warm day when you clean the winter’s mess from the flower beds. You can know the satisfaction of making something with your hands, and then compound your accomplishment with the making of the flowers that will surely love it in there. Let’s do it. Let’s make a box of mud to hang on your house.
We’ll need a plan. I have one, and I’ll give it to you. You’ll need a few tools. I have all those, and I bet you do, too, or can lay your hands on them. You’ll need to have a little spare time to work on it. I don’t have any of that, but don’t worry; my windowboxes are all finished already. So I’m your early bird, and also the first mouse. You can be the second mouse. Remember, it’s the second mouse that gets the cheese. So get ready to build your “Second Mouse Windowbox.”
Day One: Take the rest of the day off. I’ll sign your timecard. Come back tomorrow.
4 Responses
As long as it doesn’t morph into some fookin’ birdhouse or fookin’ Marten condo on a stick.
If it does, I’m outta here after I run yer hands through the bandsaw.
Also, am I gonna have to go and buy some wood and some saws and shit? I mean, can it be done by melting some packing peanuts together and using pinking shears.
If so I am your huckleberry.
Geranium: When your courtroom panel of fact-finders are irradiated.
Egad! That bounder that hails from the land of fog and bitter arabica beans seems to be hinting at resorting to physical violence to estop my efforts towards securing a more picturesque landscape via my windowbox fetish.
I tell you, sir, that before I would suffer you to plunge my precious appendages into the dastard whirling sawblades of my stationary machinery–the very limbs that I use to manipulate pie into my piehole- that I would be forced to defend myself, sir, with vigor. Expect strong language, strong letters from my solicitors, and mayhap even physical exertions on my part, sir, and beware!
(Editor’s Note: Gerard can apparently smell the danger of frou-frou yard architecture on the author from 2500 mile away: Get a load of the bird houses he makes: Sippican Owl House)
[Author’s Note: The editor is a rantipole varlet, and also, does not exist.]