July 2, 2026
The summer heat over the past ten days has felt like purgatory. I believe most of my readers can echo that comparison!
Mom’s screened-in porch has transformed into an oven that seems to bake at a steady 400 degrees. Every day I have to talk to the flowers, encouraging them to hang on just a little longer during their distress. I rotate the pots like rotisserie chickens so they don’t burn—or worse, melt.
I even bought one of those cordless fans that wraps around your neck, along with a handheld fan. Bless their little plastic hearts. Neither one was built to withstand this heat!
So anyway, I finally had enough of overheating in the sunroom and decided that some fresh air outdoors would do me some good.
Clearly, oxygen had already stopped reaching my brain when I came up with that brilliant idea.
Together Dad and I decided it would be the perfect day to tackle the English Ivy that had been invading his landscaping, wrapping itself around bushes, and trying to settle down permanently inside the brick veneer of his house.
I marched into battle for the General, armed with gardening gloves, a rake, hand clippers, and complete overconfidence.
The English Ivy, however, had other plans.
My only source of relief was my 32-ounce sippy cup full of lemonade and one energy drink.
I should have recognized God’s warning when Chaplain Bob pulled into the driveway just as I was preparing to get down on my knees and into the weeds.
While Mom and Dad enjoyed fellowship with Chaplain Bob inside, I entered my own personal wilderness experience outside.
I had no idea how twisted English Ivy becomes once it starts rolling through shrubs.
The rake could only scrape up the exposed roots. The hand clippers only worked after I excavated enough dirt to find a single vine hiding underground. Every vine seemed connected to another county.
Two hours later—and only halfway across the front yard—I finally stood up to admire my victory.
That’s when I looked up and saw Chaplain Bob.
He cheered me on like a good soldier fighting the good fight. I’m pretty sure he quietly tossed a blessing my way before climbing into his car and escaping…I mean, departing.
Meanwhile, I crawled back to my sippy cup and inhaled what remained of my lemonade.
Completely delirious by then, I somehow convinced myself that with my husband’s gas-powered equipment, we could finish the rest of the yard in just a few more days.
Because clearly I hadn’t suffered enough.
Two days later, Craig volunteered for active duty. The mission: trim the bushes, remove the remaining English Ivy, and—since he already had the chainsaw out—cut down a thorn-covered Locus tree in the backyard that appeared to have been planted by medieval soldiers.
I officially retired my neck fan and found a terry cloth that I was fairly certain Dad wouldn’t mind me borrowing.
Calling it a “cooling towel” would be generous. It was roughly the size of a napkin.
Didn’t matter.
As long as it was wet, it became my emotional support towel to wipe:
– My face.
– My neck.
– My arms.
Eventually I stopped assuming whether the moisture was fresh water or recycled sweat.
At some point, I completely surrendered what little dignity I had left.I grabbed the garden hose and drank from it like it was 1976. If that wasn’t enough, I sprayed my head, rinsed out my faithful little terry cloth, and draped it back around my neck like it was an Olympic medal.
That rag had become my lifeline.
Then Craig handed me the backpack leaf blower.
You know…the professional one that I have never operated before! The one that sounds like an airplane preparing for takeoff. Before I could even get both straps settled on my shoulders, the engine roared to life.
Off I went.
Apparently the blower was operating the equipment—not me. The only thing I cared about was my precious terry cloth, which was attempting to abandon ship and slide off my neck.
I caught it in midair while simultaneously trying to hold onto the shoulder straps for dear life.
Somewhere during this rodeo, a stick launched into my leg at approximately .22 caliber speed. I still have the bruise as evidence.
The bigger problem?
I had absolutely no idea how to turn the blower off. So there I was, bouncing around the backyard like I was riding a wild bull when Craig calmly walked over, pushed one tiny little button, and the machine instantly went silent.
Just like that.
I retired from gas-powered lawn equipment on the spot. The good news?
The English Ivy is officially gone.
The Locus tree is history.
The bushes all received matching bowl haircuts.
And now Dad has gained momentum to design his next backyard landscaping project using AI as his trusted consultant….
As for me?
I’ll be inside with Mom, where the dementia stories are far less dangerous than landscaping adventures.
To be continued…
