The yard work associated with being the main floor tenants of this bungalow has seemed to me a kind of penance, or chastening, or test of patience, or what have you.

First today I got our rechargeable, small, weed eater going and whacked down grasses and dandelions on borders and elsewhere, pausing periodically to take the thing apart and rethread the nylon line, etc.

Next I decided to try actually digging up some dandelions (the neighbor apparently has a habit of threatening to call the city bylaw enforcement about weeds on this property) for about a half hour. While doing so a grinning man with a South Asian accent walked by and said, "You have too much gold, sir!!" (I joked along.)

Then just now I finished running over the whole yard again with our little rotary, non-motorized push mower, just to keep ahead of the game since it becomes hard if the grass gets just a little high.

In the end, as it turns out, I felt a certain sense of accomplishment and satisfaction. The yard doesn't look wonderful, but it does look adequately cared for. I got a little exercise and felt, "now that wasn't so bad, was it?"

Now would I have preferred using my time in other ways? That's another question...