I routinely find myself knocking on the OCD door. I can get caught up in the minutia and ritual of certain chores. Like picking the garbage pile. Not a garbage pile we started or contribute to - it was part of the package when we bought the place. Apparently, the former owners found it acceptable to toss all sorts of household, automobile, construction and farm trash over the hill. The fact that practically none of it was biodegradeable (forget safe) seemed not to matter.
We hauled 15 huge truckloads out of here when we first moved in. (Back when we had access to a dumpster.) Now, we have to take smaller runs to the local transfer station, or "go commando" and drop off bits and pieces in public trash cans. To mark our achievement and progress, we planted a border of daffodils back there, to mark the "edge" and to put something pretty and growing in a place that used to be dismal and trashy.
That doesn't stop the picking, though. Every few days, I find myself wandering back there to corral wayward chickens or dump some leaves and I catch the glint of metal, the sparkle of glass shards, or the garish color swatch of some plastic jug just peeking out of the soil. I can't leave it alone. I can't return to the homestead side of the daffodils and pretend it's not there. Nope. I'm too compulsive, or the urge to clean too strong, or something. I pick.
It all started innocently enough with a walk back to take a photo for the header, and that tip of pipe just winked at me...and there you have it.
Better get back to my scheduled project - the one where I can't part with last Fall's decorations, and I sit and hand shuck 40 little ears of Indian corn for turkey feed.
I'm OK, really. I can walk away. Really. Just watch me. Here I go....walking away. Off to weed the potato patch. Or trim the rose briars. Or....pick some more trash?