Anyone remember this mess?

Well I slaved and I toiled. I reaped and I sowed. I tilled and I filled. And like magic this appeared…

Et voilà, mon petit jardin. Okay when I said that I toiled and all that what I meant was that I called a guy named Sebastien who came and did it in a day and for dirt cheap, get it? Dirt cheap, I crack me up. When Jerry Seinfeld comes to Paris next month just guess who he’ll be calling for material.

I’m so happy to finally have my own little garden in France but truthfully it scares me. In my old life as soon as we finished a garden we somehow always wound up moving before I could have time to enjoy it. Dear god of moving and chaos: please let me have this one for a while. I’ll give up swearing. I’ll study my French more. I’ll even consider (key word here being consider) getting an actual job, anything, just as long as I don’t have to move again.

I love the bench the most. I sit there and I see terraced gardens, ancient red roof tiles, the medieval church as the bells echo across the river every hour, as if I really ever need to know what time it is. And the pale gravel, so Frenchy with the added bonus of little need for mowing. Obviously any garden is never as lovely as it will be next year but I think it’s a good start. But it still needs something, like a fountain or a statue…

Or maybe just a big old rooster, god love him, doesn’t he look peaceful? Oh yes he does. This moment calls for quiet reflection. This moment calls for serene contemplation. This moment calls for a bucket of ice water.

While he dries off (oh I’m just kidding, I would never do that…again) come sit on my little bench with me, see what I see and listen to what a wedding in Semur sounds like…

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