You’ve all heard the catch phrase.

Forty is the new thirty: fifty is the new forty.

Let me submit to you: fifty-three is the new ninety-seven.

I worked in the back-forty yesterday. I had kind of let it be Saint-Heaven and had ignored its degeneration. But Ralph and Trixie have finally settled, somewhat, so I felt it was time to reclaim the wilderness.

Armed with shovel, rake, hand saw, clippers, gloves, trowel and a determination only negated by my physical strength, I attacked. Lord knows I did a good three hours of hard physical labor, spread out of eight or nine hours.

And today I am paying in spades. Getting out of bed this morning was agony. No, getting out of bed wasn’t agony; that was a thrill ride as I tumbled off the mattress. The agony didn’t start until I hit the floor. I would have crawled to the kitchen, but my arms weren’t capable, so I slithered on my belly.

The only part of my body that doesn’t hurt is a small portion of my forehead (upper left quadrant). The rest of the pain on my face comes from an unfortunate encounter with a mulberry branch.

It’s time to trade Richard in on a young, sweet yard-boy.