He and I had a conversation yesterday (albeit a whispered one) about how when women get sick, they seem to just keep going anyway, while men curl up in bed and succumb to it. Why is that? I know a lot of other people I've talked to have noticed the same thing. And at least the females in the group generally resent it. But I see it as a blessing. Someone has to keep going, to care for the children and keep food on the table. If I'm the one given endurance, I'm not going to complain about it. Maybe women are given better tolerance for pain, too, just due to our role as child-bearers. Who knows? I won't look the gift in the mouth, in any case.
So while my husband hacks and coughs on the couch, I'm out in the chill wind with shovel and yard bags (which keep wanting to take off on adventures down the street), doing the last few chores of the season. I love being out in stormy weather, with the clouds scudding fast overhead and the romping dogs churning around my feet, blending in with the fallen leaves. The gooseberries are plump and plentiful, but I fear they will freeze before they ripen. The little round pale-yellow flowers keep coming, though, without sign of frostbite. The lavender is still blooming, too. The radishes and Swiss chard are almost done, and there are a couple of dozen onions and green onions left to harvest, and then that's it. Ready to be weeded and mulched for the winter. I've cut down the peonies, planted the potted roses that have summered beside the front door, stored next year's seeds, and beheaded the catalpas. And I think I've given the lawn its last haircut of the season (I hope, because the mower is now buried in the back of the shed behind lawn chairs, tomato cages, and bean poles). The yard can rest soon...and maybe I can too.
My autumn-coloured dogs:
Scenes from the garden: