The girls and I were in my hometown yesterday to eat lunch with Poppy, Nanny and the Nephews, where we also swung by the optometrist's office, as I mentioned in an earlier post today.
On our way to my parents' house, we passed by our old home to see if they'd done something, anything, with the landscaping, having senselessly ripped out all the plants and shrubs my husband and I lovingly introduced to the rock-hard Indiana soil, nurturing them like children.
I thought that surely these new people would be planting something new. Maybe even something better.
But no. They haven't. It's been two weeks and now there are WEEDS growing up in the bare places where all those living things were thriving - ugly, horrible weeds.
There is no excuse for this kind of thing. I wanted to go up and rap sharply on the front door, summoning the new owners to the porch and gesturing at the weeds, saying, "Please explain yourselves, you shrub-hating buffoons."
I'm thinking that maybe that wouldn't be well received, though. Maybe I should buy a potted begonia and have it delivered to them with a card with one, terse word written on it in black Sharpie:
SURVIVOR! 42 years! #SisterhoodoftheTravelingPinkSweater - [image: photo DCE66A95-A69B-406C-A811-97D584B6979A_zpsuhhubjtt.jpg] This is my friend Mary. Mary is a 42-year survivor of breast cancer. That, of course, is...
2 months ago