Tomfoolery – The Reluctant Grownup

Come all ye young fellows that follow the sea,
to my way haye, blow the man down,
And pray pay attention and listen to me,
Give me some time to blow the man down.

I’m a deep water sailor just in from Hong Kong,
to my way haye, blow the man down,
if you’ll give me some grog, I’ll sing you a song,
Give me some time to blow the man down.

‘Twas on a Black Baller I first served my time,
to my way haye, blow the man down,
And on that Black Baller I wasted my prime,
Give me some time to blow the man down.

‘Tis when a Black Baller’s preparing for sea
to my way haye, blow the man down,
You’d split your sides laughing at the sights that you see.
Give me some time to blow the man down.

With the tinkers and tailors and soljers and all
to my way haye, blow the man down,
That ship for prime seaman on board a Black Ball.
Give me some time to blow the man down.

‘Tis when a Black Baller is clear of the land,
to my way haye, blow the man down,
Our Boatswain then gives us the word of command
Give me some time to blow the man down.

"Lay aft," is the cry,"to the break of the Poop!
to my way haye, blow the man down,
Or I’ll help you along with the toe of my boot!"
Give me some time to blow the man down.

‘Tis larboard and starboard on the deck you will sprawl,
to my way haye, blow the man down,
For "Kicking Jack" Williams commands the Black Ball.
Give me some time to blow the man down.

Pay attention to order, now you one and all,
to my way haye, blow the man down,
For right there above you flies the Black Ball.
Give me some time to blow the man down.

. . . it’s windy outside today. Here’s hoping the wind’s fist doesn’t blow this girl down as she plants her cabbages.

Took a "mental health" day today, which I do perhaps once a year, and this year today was the day. I have a flourishing little greenhouse of goodies in the guest room on a card table – locked up out of the cat’s reach, but of course. When we left there were a few small things poking up out of the dirt, but now that we’ve returned there’s a tangle of new shoots all straining for the small square of sun coming through the south window. If I leave it too long to transplant them to the garden outside, they’ll strangle each other, instead of growing into nice fat cabbages and kale and turnips and spinach to go in my summer salad. (Strange choices for a vegetable garden, yes, but there isn’t much that will grow in the almost constant shade that we of the house-built-in-the-70s-with-mature-leafdropping-sunstealing-nutrientleeching-trees everywhere must endure.) (Well, "endure" makes it sound like we don’t like our lovely trees. We do. I just wish I could cut a little sunroof out of the canopy so I could grow my veg like the good little housewife I’m turning out to be.)

To be fair, a weekend of seafood and Irish coffee and staying up late and mayonnaise, which I never eat anymore, have given me a touchy stomach and head anyway. This weekend past we traveled south to watch various friends and family perform in a hit play – they even had to add a show because of the demand! It was one of the best weekends we’ve had in recent memory – there were just dozens of people we loved there, convened from all over the country. We ate too much and drank too much and slept somewhat poorly, so I’m not feeling top notch. I think a few hours spent outside in my forest of a yard digging around will be just what the doctor ordered.