One of my dad's favorite things about my mom was that she would work in the yard or put on waiters for the dock or drive trucks during the day, but at night put on a long black fur coat or yellow silk skirt or diamond flower ring and dine in the most expensive restaurants. She was a woman, in all senses of the word - tough and strong and courageous and sensitive and nurturing and genteel.
I was raised that way. I was raised to cut six acres of grass, two ways so it was checkered in the end; to scrub algae off boat lifts; to drive quads and stick shifts and snowmobiles and Sea Doos.
I don't blink at eye at grabbing the shovel, I own my own tool kit (its pink!) and level, and have an assortment of tasks I am able and willing to do around the house. (Though admittidly, I won't touch worns or fish, won't even aim at skeet, and have no idea how to change a tire.)
I'm tough and rough and dirty and proud of it. I planted my flowers, used a powerwasher, stood on a ladder, pounded my nails, and worked at my place. It's love, working the hours and heart at home.
I dug holes today, two feet deep in red clay. Went to Home Depot Saturday twice and once today, and Lowes four times over the weekend too. I walked around with a tape measure in my purse, bought supplies, and screwed hinges. I can tell you the difference between vinyl and wood and lattice and bushes and blinds and every other type of concoction one could come up with for privacy in my backyard.
I worked in hiking capris and brown hiking boots, with flowers decorating my top. A ponytail of curls, with pearls, and leather gardener gloves with a red shovel in my hand. I like it -- the feeling of adventure; the grinding of the dirt, the knowing it's mine, the risk in figuring it out.
Today, I wear boots and bras. Today, I dig holes.
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