Weary to My BONES

BONE-WEARY. Today I blithely shouldered my shovel and continued digging a bed around the Quaking Aspens. It was hot as blazes and I stopped every now and then when I became too dizzy or thirsty, to tie with twine my unwieldy daffodil and tulips into little growing bundles. The girls were happy in a blow-up pool from bad, bad Walmart; Martin was spreading straw around the strawberry bed not far from me.

You have never seen such a heavy bed as this. Every attempt at turning over the soil was all but thwarted by what looked, for all the world, like white modeling clay, baked to rock by years of sun. Also there were shards of glass and something large and metal and entirely unidentifiable.

These sorts of setbacks do not stop Martin and me from loading our car with tomato and pepper plants, lettuce, seeds, deer fence, posts, bleeding heart and yes, more roses. We are big dreamers.

And to the beds, I say, well, good luck. Plants have been making their way for centuries. We do our best within reason and hope the plants are brave and strong and adventurous.

Today is Martin's first day back in the garden full-time and I dare say he is a great deal more sore than I. This makes me feel better somehow, in a very selfish kind of way. He took over the clay bed and actually bent my steel Dutch shovel in the attempt; after he brought up a load of organic material from the bottom of the hill we dug in a shrub rose and flowering sage.

Martin has also taken on the duty of feeding us all well, though the Peanut-Ginger Noodles with Carrot-Cucumber Relish just about turned me into a human torch. Intense, yes. But tempered by good beer and spinach salad with apples, pecans, and optional goat cheese.

Anyone ready to come to Wazoo? Bring your shovel and your appetite.