It’s still very dry here in California. I spent a couple of hours trying to clean the deck where I put out a lot of pots which sometimes grow plants in them, and sometimes don’t.
I am cleaning it off after the winter of no rain, a lot of the pots are empty, so I’m emptying pots, bringing up new plastic pots, and sweeping all the oak leaves off because I am thinking planting a whole new bunch of seeds which I will hopefully raise to blooming glory. I might need this oasis because with California in a major drought I might have to let my regular garden dry out. The deck is on the same level as our showers, and if we have to save shower warming up water, a deck on the same level is much more doable than going down a floor and out.
But this is not what I wanted to talk about. I wanted to talk about bees.
On my other blog, preeva. net, there is a blog post about bees. You can see it here:
It basically says I got bees, I took some combs full of honey out of the hive, then when I saw the bees crawling around on the combs I felt sorry for them and rescued them and felt weird.
Of course, writing is about saying plain stuff in a prettier way, with process and everything. So I wrote an essay about it, and tried to sell it.
Not having much luck with that.
So maybe it needs to be a short story.
What do you think?