Yard improvements, planned and not-quite-so-very
My house is a cottage. This means it has the requisite white trim, picket fence...and flower boxes. When I moved in, mine (like most others in this half of the complex) were empty.
I have never, ever been very good with plants. I've managed to kill a pot of English Ivy, for crying out loud. I have two black thumbs. Yet I wanted to try doing something with those flower boxes. The suggestion was made that I try cyclamen: colorful flowering plants that are native to Alaska and therefore very, very fond of cold weather. They're also fairly inexpensive and pretty low-maintenance, both of which appealed to me. If I'm going to run the (pretty high, near-certain) risk of ending up with two hanging boxes full of dead plants, I don't care to lay out serious sums of money. The cyclamen were available in white, red, and fuschia. I got red: white would have looked too bland, and fuschia is just...well...no. No, no, no, no, no. (Besides, these almost match the cottage north-northeast of me, which is painted a strong rich red. All the other cottages - mine included - are some pastel-candy-color.) A few days in, and those cyclamen have rooted and are REALLY happy with the cooler weather. There's an arctic cold front moving down this weekend, so they should be absolutely ecstatic.
My cottage's "yard" is mostly rocked over, and has little else in the way of yard maintenance, so I've got it easy. The folks next door have their "yard" covered with concrete, ensuring that they'll never never ever have to weed anything. I don't know that I care to get that drastic. However, since these cottages do require that the owners care for their own yards, I will end up leaving the rocks down for a while unless I get a wild idea that maybe, just maybe, I will suddenly be enthralled by the idea of gardening and yardwork.
I might fence in my yard - at least one side. Some young twentysomethings were visiting the neighbor-boy the other weekend. One of them apparently wasn't feeling too well, since when I first saw him he was bent over and vomiting rather enthusiastically into my side yard. (I considered asking Mrs. West if Chuck was alright. When she said, "Chuck?" I'd say, "I thought that might be his name - since that's what he was doing when I met him." That, however, is one of those ideas that will never ever actually be enacted. What's funny in my head would probably have some not-so-funny repercussions. I don't love Mrs. West with all my heart and soul, but I don't really see any percentage in embarrassing her or taking potshots.) When Chuck stood up he looked...bad. Really bad. Take a strung-out crackhead, clean him up just a tiny bit, and then give him the flu. That's how Chuck looked. He was so pale he makes Englishmen look lightly bronzed. I did later ask Mrs. West if her son's friend was alright, and mentioned that said friend had been throwing up in my side yard and I was a little concerned. She told me that the kid had walking pneumonia. I don't know if that was true, or if he was just strung out and Mrs. West was trying to save a little bit of face. At any rate, I got my point across: her boy's friend had hurled in my yard, I was aware of it, and now she's aware that I'm aware. I think that Young Mr. West probably got a talking-to. (And his friend probably got a dime bag. Or was forcibly readmitted to the hospital and pumped full of antibiotics. Whatever.)
