Saturday, May 05, 2012

Pretty Good, Could Be Better

My roses (and hydrangeas & azaleas) are nice right now. Filling out, blooming. Except the ones Ed pruned hard. He helped me with the roses a few weeks back and I mentioned that I wanted to prune pretty thoroughly in the hopes of discouraging the virus. He took this to mean "prune them level with the ground." He'd gotten three bushes when I realized we were working from different visions of "prune." And, as it turns out, the virus doesn't mind a good hard prune anyway. Prefers it, in fact.
Here you can see the red, twisted growth from the virus infested branches. Actually, all the roses, even the ones that are looking (for now) healthy and vigorous have some of this. At this point, though, I think they might look a little better than they did last year, so I'm still holding out hope.

On the school front, we spent another week on late 19th/early 20th century century labor and industry. Orphan trains, William Jennings Bryan, the Gold Standard, etc. All interesting stuff, and the kids and I enjoy it while we're reading, but I'm ready for a holiday. I've planned that we will take three weeks off over the summer, and one of those weeks may come pretty soon!

I've been thinking about this post while washing the lunch dishes, and this poem came to mind...

“Almost perfect… but not quite.”
Those were the words of Mary Hume
At her seventh birthday party,
Looking ’round the ribboned room.
“This tablecloth is pink not white
Almost perfect… but not quite.”
“Almost perfect… but not quite.”
Those were the words of grown-up Mary
Talking about her handsome beau,
The one she wasn’t gonna marry.
“Squeezes me a bit too tight–
Almost perfect… but not quite.”
“Almost perfect… but not quite.”
Those were the words of ol’ Miss Hume
Teaching in the seventh grade,
Grading papers in the gloom
Late at night up in her room.
“They never cross their t’s just right–
Almost perfect… but not quite.”
Ninety-eight the day she died
Complainin’ ’bout the spotless floor.
People shook their heads and sighed,
“Guess that she’ll like heaven more.”
Up went her soul on feathered wings,
Out the door, up out of sight.
Another voice from heaven came–
“Almost perfect… but not quite.”

                                         by Shel Silverstein

I know I am incredibly lucky to get to stay home and teach my kids, and also to have a home and a yard with roses. The roses may (do) have a funky virus, and the kids sometimes make me a little crazy, but they are wonderful and I am grateful!

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