Our Next Day Off

Okay, since we've never been ones to quit after only one try, we decided to have another day off. Sunday seems to work better than any other day, for a lot of reasons, one of the biggest being tradition brought on by our society's predominantly Protestant work ethic. In our case, our delivery schedule is such that we don't have to pick and pack on Sundays, and I'll admit that I have a fond habit of walking the fields on Sunday mornings, searching for arrowheads, smushing bugs and kicking up dirt clods. I can easily fit into the country bumpkin stereotype, in fact more easily than I can fit into some of my not-so-old clothes. (As an aside, we just got a new stove after going for longer than my manly pride will 'fess up to without one, so my girth is growing.) Anyhow, Sunday is our only chance for a weekly day off.
Now I'm a planner. I have at various times been called schemer, dreamer, plotter and conniver, but I think all of those words are just euphemisms for planner. So I'm busily planning our next day off, and I have to admit it's not going well. Our next door neighbor tends to mow parts of his large yard 6 days a week, and I'm pretty sure he has a turbocharger and a set of glass packs on his industrial strength mower. Working in the fields is always fun, but a lot less so with him drowning out all the birds, bees, and shrieks of the bugs I'm stomping. So on Sundays when he doesn't mow the temptation is very strong to get out and listen from the vantage point of mid-bean row or pea patch. And you can't just stand there....
The other reason our next day off is not looking real good is Wendy. She's too hard to please, but I've hit on the one thing that is sure to bring a smile to her face. I just ordered her a brand new, personalized, state-of-the-art scuffle hoe. I know, I know, but I'm that nice a guy. Nothing's too good for my partner. And it should be delivered Saturday afternoon. I said I'm a planner, didn't I? I will recommend to her that she spend Sunday lolling in the shade, sharpening the blade, seasoning the handle, and plotting her attack on Johnson grass and cockleburrs, but I fear she will sneer at me, sniff the air, grab the hoe and take off. She's not one to sit while weeds are growing bigger and tougher. Pity the weeds, and share my chagrin - another day off spent on. We'll try again.