Just sat down with a bowl of steamed broccoli—drizzled with olive oil, sprinkled with sea salt—at 7:28 PM. Today was a doozy. My whole body is vibrating from operating a brush hog for about as many hours as it takes me to run thirty miles, give or take one hour depending on the nature of the terrain. The sun was downright bellicose. No matter how much water I poured into myself, none came back out. In the nomenclature of working folks, a brush hog is what is called a man-eater. Now it doesn’t literally eat a guy, but it will do a number on him. On a job site, you will, if you are working folk, eventually hear the term.
“Billy.”
“Boss?”
“Take that yonder man-eater up the backside and give it hell.”
“On it, Boss.”
I’m a tad spent due to wrestling with said man-eater, but progress was made—old dubious progress. Dubious because with the man-eater, I took what was a meadow of native grasses and wildflowers and made it into a lawn of sorts. That pained me, but at least I didn’t have to rip out …
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