Busted, dusted, disgusted, and can't be trusted

I have the Woody Guthrie Library of Congress recordings, and at some point in the discussion between songs, he makes the above statement, talking about the Okie "dust bowl refugees".  He tells about the extreme drought and dust storms before he breaks into song with "I got that dust pnuemonee..." 


Woody is one of my favorite songwriters, along with Bob Dylan and Kris Kristofferson and Tom T. Hall.  And Fanny Crosby, of course.  All of those people make me want to sit down and write a song.  

With the extended drought we're having and the string of highs in the upper 90's, I'm starting to feel dusted and disgusted myself.  I'm still watering the tomatoes and peppers, but I'm letting everything else go.  Those seeds I optimistically planted for a fall garden never even came through the surface of the baked earth, except for turnips.
The weeds grow, though.  Boy, do they.  Mostly vine-y stuff like creeping jenny.  That's what my dad called it.  And some other little lacy-looking thing that is vining everywhere.  I'm ashamed of my flower bed.  

I don't recall ever having a problem with this little creeping thing, whatever it is.  

Five years ago when we moved back here behind the barn, we planted grass in the front yard.  It was beautiful the next spring, lush and green like a carpet.  Two straight years of drought have turned it into ugly weeds.  

Oh well, I'm thankful for air conditioning, which we never had at all until five years ago.  I'm loving the abundance we're getting from the garden.  There are so many things to eat at each meal, we can hardly eat it all.  And we're not tired of tomatoes yet.