Oh……..our peach tree…. the poor thing had a million peaches on it. They were the size of marbles, already ripe, covered in bees, hornets, wasps and all kinds of flying critters that sting. The tree was bent down, and nearly dead, so I asked my husband to cut it.
Several days later, he came in and said, “I cannot tell a lie. I chopped down the peach tree.”
“That was a cherry tree, George Washington, and I know you cannot tell a lie… that’s why I married you.” I said.
Now, maybe I should have left that tree alone, because as you all know, karma will get me! I am NOT one to cut down a living thing, but this poor tree was beyond repair. It was suffering a slow, agonizing death, y’all, so judge if you must, but I did the right thing. I am the Dr. Kevorkian of trees!!
It was too heavy to drag up the hill, so we dragged it over to the neighbor’s fire pit. Suddenly, the skies opened up and it started raining cats and dogs!
Now, if you know me, you KNOW I ain’t gonna stand around in rain! Even if Elvis came to my back yard and performed during a storm, I would watch from the inside of the house, through the sliding glass doors with the dog slobber all over them.
So, the tree stayed there a few days, and the neighbors, who do not actually live in the house next door,came in. Of course, the first thing I thought of is the peach tree decaying in their yard.
That same day, I had actually made myself a semi cripple while fighting my weed eater, who has a mind of her own and is determined to amputate a foot, leg, or at least a toe.
My weed eater is named Barbie, and she had, not long before the neighbors came in, attacked my big toe on my left foot. Although I was bleeding, cussing, and rolling around in the yard holding my toe, I planned on cutting up the peach tree and burning it.
I limped to the garage and found my loppers. The loppers also have a mind of their own and become long or short at their own whim, and generally are as worthless as tits on a boar hog, but I was trying, y’all.
They are named Jim, for reasons I shall not reveal, but you see how I described them and y’all are not stupid, so I know you will deduce they are named after someone I “used to know.”
I headed toward the fire pit, stuck my left foot into a hole, fell down, and bent the SAME 
WEED EATEN TOE backwards!!! I managed to keep my dignity in front of the neighbor, and didn’t even cuss out loud!
“Are you okay?” he asked, and he meant it. I couldn’t speak there for a second, but I did nod my head and stood up really fast, just to impress.
“I’m good, I’m fine, I’m okay!!” I gasped.
We started cutting up and burning the tree. I decided while the fire was burning to continue to weed eat with my enemy, Barbie, the weed eater sent straight from the depths of hell.
Now, I know you are thinking I should not weed eat in flip flops, but you don’t have my feet, and besides that, I don’t like to be confined, hot, sweaty and miserable. Tennis shoes do that to me. Tennis shoes are a communist plot designed to make everyone in America have stinky, sweating feet. Tennis shoes are a plan to keep us from getting close, and have become a form of birth control for many.
As I struggled with Barbie, the devil incarnate, she threw a big rock, (I watched it fly through the air) straight up from the ground, about fifty feet into the air, and RIGHT DOWN ONTO MY ALREADY WEED EATEN, TWISTED TOE!!!
I bet my poor mother was a- rolling in her grave at all the words I invented at that moment! She would have slapped me on both sides of my face, washed out my mouth with lava soap, told my daddy, taken my Elvis records, and made me eat supper on the porch. She may even have jerked the phone cord out so I couldn’t call my friend, Cathy.
This story does have a moral….don’t go cutting down a peach tree. It’s very, very dangerous and that thing about karma is true!!
If you see me in tennis shoes, you may assume I have lost at least a nail and maybe a whole toe!!
And maybe I will finally get my Hover Round, or at least a cart to drive in Wal Mart. I think I am gonna put on a silver tube top, sweat pants, socks and tennis shoes, part my hair in 
the middle and stretch it behind my ears, put on my cap that says “Old Fart”, borrow a few squalling young ‘uns to follow me around, and go shopping!!!!
And, Lord, forgive me for chopping down Your tree. I know I should have kept it, but, Lord, those bees and wasps weren’t flying around Your head……will it be okay if I just plant a couple of marigolds out there and let it go at that??
