Mulch

 

What have I been doing all this time?  You may wonder...and so may I.  Packing to move?  Not yet.  Fixing up the house to get back into?  Not yet.  Joseph has been working hard at his end of the move, so, while the engine of my anticipation is racing, I am exercising it outdoors.  Besides taking great pleasure in this season's gorgeous crop of daffodils, I'm planning new gardens, cleaning up the yard (Alexander and Louis' battalion having been deployed to the camp next door), ordering plants for a back border, and mulching. 

invading fort...

...newly deployed

Last summer and fall, Joseph spent months turning my problematic slope into a beautifully designed rock garden.  He and Alexander dug up the rocks themselves (I probably told you about it then) and Joseph placed them and planted around them parcel by parcel. 

Joseph's rock garden last fall

But the last two months' rains have washed our native orange clay to the surface, making for slippery, uneven slopes here and there.  Perfect for building army forts, and camouflaging against the enemy, but not much for growing.  So, once I had a clear field, it was time to replenish, lay down nourishment and comfort, and hold down my ground.

Meanwhile, I hadn't noticed how the pandemic enclosures this last year had rendered me so inactive, physically.  I walk outdoors almost every day, of course, 40 minutes at least, often an hour, but being in a small apartment and leaving the gardening at the house to (the more talented, frankly) Joseph, I wondered whether my body would be up to the task of hauling and digging and spreading mulch as I had done in years past.  Creaks and groans in knees, a disfigured hand...what did that say about a change of life force...was it time to let someone else do it?

What erased that question was the estimate I received from a well-recommended garden helper.  I won't shock you with the exact figure, but I figured that doing it myself would save enough for three new kitchen appliances...and not small ones, either.  So I got on the phone to Brockwell's and ordered a truckload to be delivered.  There was no longer any question whether I'd once more pick up shovel and rake and get to work myself.  

The nice office manager at Brockwell's made sure I was buying enough to justify the delivery charge (a drop in the bucket), but delivery was better than borrowing someone's pickup and going back twice for more.  To avoid delays, she advised me to get on their waitlist. "That way the driver can just call you when he finds extra time between deliveries, and even if you are not home, you can put a bucket to mark where you want it dumped and leave a check under the mat."

To my amazement, the load showed up the same afternoon.  A generous three yards of double shredded hardwood piled nearly as high as the window sills was mine to work with.  And work I did.  Over three days, at 2-3 hours at a time, I stuck pitchfork after pitchfork into the steaming hulk, loaded wheelbarrowfuls to truck to the far and near corners of the front yard, first raking mounds of leaves out of their nests in shrubbery and rock borders.

Frankly, the effort...my effort...amazed me. Initially, I reckoned that I'd be able to work an hour or so til my heretofore crumbling body complained, but miraculously it had sprung into Spring mode...it didn't make a peep. 

 In a few hours the whole lower slope was finished.  From the first dig into that pile, I recognized the familiar strength real physical work draws out.  When later I returned to the apartment I was sure I'd need a good dose of ibuprophen, or something stronger, before bedtime, but all I really felt was exhilaration.  I was tired, but in the way one feels after a bracing game or run (don't be fooled:  I haven't run in at least four decades, but you understand the analogy, I'm sure).  I couldn't wait for the next day to begin again.

center front, spring, mulched

Though day one had been a balmy 70 degrees F, day two was cloudy, considerably cooler and dampening with the mist of a small rain.  No problem for me:  over a few hours the mulch pile diminished even further.

lesser celandine

My prolific gardening neighbor Laurie Thorp had dug me up some of her lesser celandine, which, though invasive enough to cover a whole yard in no time, would at least anchor the steepest, most resistent part of the slope.  I planted those right away while the air was wet.  Neighbor after neighbor stopped by to cheer me on (a few wondered where the soldiers had gone).  Yesterday morning, day three, colder still and bracing, I headed back to do what was left.  After the day's dig and spread, I walked around that slope, picking up last leaves, raking here and there, happy (as I hope the garden will be) not only at the way it looked, but at the way I felt...lifted and cleansed of old infirmities.

back mess of ivy

Now it's time to get to the back yard, where acres of ivy complicate everything.  On Monday, one of the university boys will come to help me tackle the mess and ready the ground for the new trees that arrive on Tuesday; my hands, while they can lift, haul, carry, rake and plant, can't dig large wells well. On Wednesday, plant; on Thursday, who knows what I will turn to?  Oh, right...bluestone pebbles down for a path to a small flagstone patio (I'd better get an order in for those).  

I'm up for anything these days, thanks in no small part to the effort called forth by Spring.

Here, though, is the highlight of our move so far:  last night, on the other side of the driveway, we celebrated Joseph, born into daffodil season all those years ago, just before the first day of Spring, with a birthday dinner in his new kitchen.  Though he's not moved in yet, we sat enjoying the space and admiring the view out the windows, blessing candles, bread, and being together.  

Spring has always been for me a resurgence of body and spirit...and new life.  

This year it radiates inside and out.