Not at all petuniaesque

Weeding, reading, writing, meetings: that's the story of my life right now. The soundtrack of my life, however, is another thing entirely, provided mostly by towhees and kingfishers and this annoying little ditty that popped into my head while I was weeding a row of onions today (and the fact that it took me a full hour to get through half a row of onions suggests that we planted too many onions (again) or that I'm working way too slowly (as usual) or that we postponed weeding that row way too long (a likely story)).

But back to that other story, the story of my life, and more particularly the current soundtrack accompanying the story of my life: I'm standing amongst the onions pulling weed after weed, sweat pouring down my face and dirt flying everywhere, when I suddenly a snatch of song--"I'm a lonely little petunia in the onion patch"--just that one line, nothing more. Is this something my mother sang to me as a child? If so, why am I hearing it in the voice of Elmer Fudd? No one in the universe is less Fuddlike than my mother, and no one is less petunialike than me when I'm pulling weeds. But there I am, not lonely, not little, and not at all petunialike, but ensconced in the onion patch pulling weeds accompanied by the voice of Elmer Fudd singing "I'm a lonely little petunia in the onion patch," the soundtrack of my life.

The aroma of my life is oniony with a side of compost and an occasional hint of earthy tomato wafting over from the next row, where my husband is weeding the tomato patch. He promised to plant a smaller garden this year, as he does every year, but I'm afraid to count the number of tomato plants out there. Gigantic garden producing more weeds than two busy people can possibly manage: story of my life.