Footware

Nothing beats the right pair of shoes. In the garden, you can't beat a shoe that supports old ankle sprains, soothes neuromas, keeps out (most) of the rake dirt, and prevents Olympic sized slip-and-falls like the one that upended me on a wet wheelchair ramp the day I wore old Croc's.

(There's something to be said for the right pair of knee pads, too.)

But you can't appreciate those Merrell boots more, than after a Volunteer day spent in slip-ons.  Somehow the ol' boots got left behind in the kitchen during the usual flurry of 5:40AM coffee refills and searches for garden hats and spare change.

The boots take so long to sock-up and lace that I save the job for the long passenger ride up the freeway. I went to grab them out of my huge Tuesday Morning bag in the back seat. Gasp! They were not there.

There was nothing to be done. Had to spend the whole day in old 'sneaks I'd worn to the car.  

While it wasn't the dismal day I'd feared, my back took the brunt, and the poor 'pups' reveled in hot freedom waiting for my second bus home * .

There's nothing like a full day of pruning acanthus in half bare feet. They survived;

but my pace was slowed, so acanthus, bougainvilla, and a few nut grass subversions were only moderately intercepted. 

Another gardening FIRST:
witnessing the legendary network of nutgrass  filaments for myself.
(Why is my camera so flakey? A challenge for another day.)

My Merrells will ride again next week, God willing. Until then, the art and craft of public gardening must limp along half tended.  How will the wood nymphs sleep at night?

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

* "home": my rendezvous with DH for the 30 mile commute back down the fwy.