Weeds

I don't know why it is...but weeds in the yard drive me crazy.

O.K.

I know why it is.

I'm mentally ill and as a kid, we were all tasked with keeping 5 acres neat and organized.

We all became obsessive about it.

I talk to my siblings now...I know we are all suffering with just one weed too many.

Suffice to say, I need things to be clean and organized.

I need control of my surroundings.

Evidently I'm the only one in this house who does.

"Pick some weeds," I tell the campers at Camp Clifford each and every day.

They never seem to get around to it with the eating, and drinking and shooting hoops.

"I picked a few yesterday," Sam will say.

But it's never enough.

I need them all gone.

So on Friday...with a day off staring me in the face...I made a decision to get away from the computer and the phone.

The sun was riding high, not a cloud in the sky.

I started at one end of the house.

Weed after weed.

The i-pod blasting in my ears.

Against the Wind.

She's the One.

There's a real danger of singing with headphones on...you never know how loud you're being until you see the neighbor laugh.

I didn't care.

I swung by the kitchen for a water.

"What's wrong with you?" My beautiful wife asked.

I really needed a day without work...and there I was...busting my ass.

"Gotta' clean things up," I said.

Weed after weed.

Hour after hour.

Finally, one of the campers headed out.

There wasn't a weed to be found.

Sweat pouring down.

"What's wrong with you?" Sam asked.

Nothing.

All clean.

I'm good.