Don't Mow Til the Black Eyed Susans Come

I had written up an elaborate tale filled with near death escapes and being snatched and whisked away to another dimension.  All in an effort to get around the fact that what is really to blame is I had  become less than a slug, lower than a sponge clinging to a reef, but just above a comatose sloth.

It was just three or so days ago I took off the snowblower and attached the mower deck.

I know.  I know.  I have heard it all before.  I have rationalized it all before.  The fact is   I just hate mowing grass.

This year's excuse was,

"I don't want to mow until the Black Eyed Susans come."

My wife just rolled her eyes.  But you know what, I'm gonna go with it.  The picture tells me I'm right.  Besides, I want a new cover photo for FB.

Keep it 'Tween the Ditches ................................................