Last night after cooking salmon for dinner I was back down at the farm, weedwhacking in the gathering gloom. Wild raspberries had grown up to smother the north field fence where it jogs steeply up and around the little frog pond in the driftway. I needed to turn the cattle out in the north field — so I needed to restore the charge in that fence. Thus I needed to weedwhack.
As I stumbled over broken logs and boulders in the near-dark, the loudly snarling weedwhacker slung on my shoulder, I thought to myself: maybe I need to make this fence simpler and easier to maintain. I’m not getting any younger. Moments later I slipped on a mossy boulder, skinning my knee, and almost pitched backwards down the slope into the frog pond.
I’m changing that “maybe” to “definitely.”