Poor Charles.

I am certain that when we married nearly 20 years ago, he was painfully aware of my passion for gardening. He steadfastly assisted me in turning springs soil, weeded summer’s abundance and then held the bags open as the slimy spoils of falls frost were disposed of.
Year after year he patiently maneuvers around the cookie sheets precariously balanced flat surfaces in the dining room that hold tiny pots where little sprouts of green will hopefully appear and then grow into the seedlings for the years garden.
He then overlooks the crumbs of garden soil that trails across our deck, the carpet and the floor of the kitchen and sink and the children and I haul in the harvest.
But, it is our newest interests that he is ever so weary about. Bees. (and chickens). While Squirt has her moments, and is known to drive us all crazy in trying to keep us rounded up and in tow (she has a serious herding streak), she is the one thing that is currently keeping the kids and I from delving in whole-heartedly into setting up a hive this summer, and building a coop in the fall.
So long as we have a dog, we won’t be able to have bees. (or chickens).  Charles is rooting for the dog. Who, as it turns out, is turning 10 in April.  That is mighty old for a Greyhound. But don’t tell her that. She still thinks she’s 5 or 6.  

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