Gotta cold in my node and sorry looking hands

I told Bill this morning that this has to be the worst cold I've had since retiring five years ago. At first, I thought it was just allergies from all those blossoming bushes here at the Lovestead. After all, I could never get a lilac bush to live through the winter at the Great Northern place, so springtime pollen wasn't too much of a factor during those 30 years.

This place, however, is loaded with lilacs, and they're at their full show right now. Nonetheless, after several days and several new symptoms I've decided the lilacs deserve no blame for the healthy amount of congestion my head and lungs have taken on lately. And, it seems to get worse by the day. What was a raspy throat has turned into sneezing, blowing and a lot of coughing, so much so that I broke down and used a liquid Nyquill last night.

When you have a cold in your node and it's pretty outside, that makes you feel even worse. I've tried to get my coffee to give me jolt enough to feel a little more energy, but no luck. Bill had this cold before I did, and I noticed it sure was liquidy when he came down with it. He also tells me that no amount of caffeine helped him through the worst days, so my next strategy is to get out there and work really hard at some project, hard enough to make me forget the damn cold.

Which brings to mind, while sitting and thinking after reading this morning's newspapers, I took a good look at my hands. Gosh, they're ugly. I was just reading my friend Jenny's blog which talks about the simple life in the country surrounded by animals, and I thought once again about my battle-worn hands.

They're covered with evidence of all the work that comes with the simple life. There's still some red spray paint from the aerosol can I used the other day to dress up my remaining pilfered wagon wheel (read Lessons with Love for more details).

I also used red and blue spray paint to provide a whimsical look to the rock flower bed where the wagon wheel sits. The whimsy comes in the form of several old horse shoes, which are no longer rust-colored. Now red and blue, they hang at angles on oversized sticks resting on top of the rocks.

The can of red spray paint also spiffed up a set of wooden wind chimes in the front yard and the top of a frost-free hydrant near the barn. Fortunately, the can went empty before I found another item to dress up.

Back to the hands: the finger nails are short, caked with indelible dirt and definitely in need of repair all around. No matter how much I wash my hands, I cannot remove the evidence of hours spent digging in the dirt or pulling ever-growing weeds. Ground-in soil runs in straight lines and curves, especially on my right hand which seems to get the biggest workout of the two.

A few weeks ago I remember so vividly Virginia Wood shaking my hand at a funeral and commenting that it was definitely the hand of a working woman with its well-formed callouses residing side by side across the palm. Her astuteness impressed me, and I didn't feel one bit of shame. My callouses, my rough, cracked skin and shoddy-looking fingernails serve as badges of sorts, honoring the life I prefer here in the country.

I don't take time to look at my hands very often, but this morning's viewing made me think that the best darned therapy in the world for this node cold is to put them to work outside rather than sittin' on the couch, thinking about how awful I feel.

So, that's what I'm gonna do.