I've never liked my upper arms. I've been overweight most of my life, and I've always been ashamed of my body. Sleeves were a must even though I was often miserable in hot weather. This year, I'm changing it up, and here's why.

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The garden was finished about a month ago. I have been outside more in that brief time than I had perhaps the two years previous, entire.

I walk the place every morning, making sure the blackberries understand they're no longer welcome here. I'm finding fewer and fewer attempts to recolonize, so perhaps they're getting the message. (I'm not slacking, though. I Am Become Death, Slayer of Blackberries.)

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I may actually get grapes this year. Apparently I got them last year, but the blackberries were so thick I didn't know they were there, until I discovered their dessicated skeletons this spring.

I have counted fourteen clusters on the vines. Most are on the Zinfandel vine I planted, not in expectation of making wine but because that's my dad's favorite varietal, and mine, too. It tickled me.

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