Flowers in spite of my worst intentions

The flowers around the yard are incredibly beautiful right now. Spring has indeed sprung in abundance.

Which begs the question: Are the flowers doing well because of me or in spite of me?

Definitely the latter.

If they're doing well it's because of my benign -- make that abject -- neglect.

They're better off that I don't even try, quite frankly. If I make an honest attempt to cultivate them and help them along they'll most assuredly perish.

I'm just not much for yard work. I'll mow the lawn when it needs it. I'll weed whack on occasion.

I don't de-thatch. I don't fertilize. I don't put down weed killer.

I am a disinterested participant in yard work. It is a chore, something that has to get done like taking out the garbage and recyclables each Monday morning.

My disinterest is so abject that I've been known to mow over the very flower beds that are now springing with so much life and color. I did it once ... by accident ... honest.

My lawn looks just fine to the people who can see it: me and my wife, since the yard is pretty much shielded from the road we live on. I don't need it to look like the outfield of Fenway Park.

I thought in retirement, though, that I might get into yard work.

I went into my first summer of retirement by planting a vegetable garden of tomatoes, peppers, and herbs. It was okay. I went into my second summer of retirement with another vegetable garden, using my experience from the previous summer to improve the yield. It was less than okay.

I'm about to go into my third summer of retirement and I'm not going to bother with the vegetable garden.

I did an analysis and found that the return on investment -- the ROI -- wasn't any good.

I was investing way too much effort into the garden and getting diddly in return -- frequent watering, weeding and mulching for a couple of tomatoes and peppers.

And frankly, it's boring.

I recently wrote an Examiner.com post about a recent survey of Baby Boomer women who say that they'll carry their gardening interests well into retirement.

More power to them, I say. Me? I can't be bothered.

Living in the sticks

When you live in the sticks, expect sticks.

Especially when the wind blows.

It's been a particularly bad season for sticks in my yard up here in the sticks. And it's not something I can get used to.

I'm a relative newcomer to the sticks. For the first part of my adult life I lived in the city, in North Cambridge, Mass. For the next part of my adult life I lived in the suburbs, on the Massachusetts North Shore.

Now, in a semi-retired, semi-working part of my adult life, I live in the sticks of New Hampshire.

Our house is surrounded by trees -- lots of looming pine, an occasional oak and maple, and a smattering of cedar that gives my neighborhood its name.

These trees, judging from their size, have been around forever. They've got way more rings around their middle than I do.

And every time the wind blows they shed bits of themselves, which is okay under normal circumstances, but the amount of wind we've been having lately just doesn't seem normal.

There was the big late February blow that really did a number, sending branches and tree detritus to litter up the yard. One of the pines toppled over just over the line in Irv's yard, so that was his problem to deal with.

But there have been subsequent days of high winds that continue to rain sticks down on the yard.

I've spent a lot of time hunched over playing a pick-up-sticks game that really wasn't much fun.

My big concern is that if my little corner of the sticks is getting full of this tinder, what's happening in the real sticks, the big forests? The tinder there must be accumulating in tremendous numbers.

Is there a huge forest fire just waiting to happen for just the right lightning strike or the careless match or cigarette butt?

I can do without the succession of windy days. The less wind, the fewer sticks.

And don't get me started about the amount of leaves ... or the acorns ... or the pine needles.

No patience for stupidity

I have no patience or sympathy for stupidity and the consequences that can come as a result.

Perhaps as an aging Baby Boomer, someone who's been around the block once or twice (three times and four times) I'm getting less patient.

I've always considered myself as being pretty laid back and tolerant. Make love, not war. Live and let live. Boys will be boys.

But I find myself not suffering stupid very well any more.

My measure of stupid is anyone doing anything they know is wrong or foolish but they do it anyway as a path toward self promotion.

It is especially endemic these days because that self-promotion is so easy on the internet. It's easy to be a fool -- and an internet sensation -- on YouTube.

So I don't feel bad that 17-year-old Steve Consalvi who ran onto the field in Philadelphia during a Phillies-Cardinals earlier this week and was brought down with a cop using a Taser.

The father, who described his son to the Philadelphia Inquirer as a "real good student, heading to Penn State," referred to the incident as "teenagers having fun."

"He wasn't drinking. He was not on drugs," he said. "I don't recommend running on the field, but I don't think they should have Tased him at all".

But if the kid is as responsible as the dad says he is, then he would have known there would be consequences for knowing breaking the law and running on the field. And I suspect he did it because of the instant fame it would give him.

I did a search involving "taser" and "phillies" for YouTube and came up with more than 300 videos. The incident was a hot topic on TV and sports radio talk shows.

He deserved it, I say.

I side with Forrest Gump on this one: "Stupid is as stupid does."