I'm talking about the push to get the garden in, shaped up and ready for the growing season. But I love the work. Even though my body thinks I'm torturing it way beyond the limits of sensibility. No worry. I'm fine. As long as once I stop for the day I don't try to bend over. Or lift anything. Or sit down. Or try to get up.
My main reason for this little post is to show you this picture.
A really, really nice guy presented us with eight big bags of wood shavings that are so much appreciated and are joyfully being used to mulch my strawberries and blueberries. I had given up hope of finding shavings to use this year, so you can imagine what a wonderful gift this was. (Strange things excite a gardener, no?) This picture is kinda weird in that it makes the bags look like loaves of bread, don't you think? In reality, the bags are about three feet high and eighteen inches across and packed solid. I can lift one but wouldn't want to haul it much farther than my waiting wheelbarrow.
Our temperatures are still way, way too cool for this time of year. All the transplants I've put out in the garden look stressed and unhealthy. I've got some seeds emerging from the soil; let's keep our fingers crossed for them. Night before last we got down to the mid-30s and I'm sincerely hoping that will be the last frost scare until long into this coming fall.
Okay, off now to an early bedtime so I can get up with the chickens in the morning and have another fun-filled day. I seriously don't know of anything I'd rather work so hard at than creating a garden that will (we hope, hope, hope) produce loads and loads of luscious homegrown fruits and vegetables.
But, criminy, I sure do wish Missing-in-Action-Agnes would get here to take care of the cooking and cleaning that so desperately needs to be done inside these days.
the quotidian (10.23.17)
4 hours ago