The Price We Pay

Looking at the extended forecast, I determined that the last of the frosty nights should be this past Saturday, at least as much as such things can be foreseen. Coupled with the knowledge that over the past 100 or so years, the average last day of frost is the 8th of May, I fixed upon Sunday (yesterday!) as The Day to get the garden in.

Wednesday found me toting home in the back of el minivan: 15 bags of compost-manure (pronounced ma-NRRRRR) and 15 bags of pine bark mulch. I have yet to get the poor van vacuumed out. It smells vaguely. Of steer. And bark.

Thursday, I spread all 600 lbs of compost-manure (it sounds more impressive that way) all over the previously spaded and de-weeded soil in the raised bed from hell.

Friday, I champed at the bit.

Saturday, I braved the plant store with Sara, causing much near-havoc as I careened with the large green wagon (not one of those sissy little red ones that they also had as an option) around the rows of plant-babies, tossing mostly veggie plants and herbs in, while Sara tallied the number of little pots and urged me to add more, so she could keep counting. Good kid, that.

Sunday dawned sunny and I proclaimed that all systems were 'go'. I got Charles to act in his official role of 'starter of small gas engines' (I have never been able to get that damned tiller going. It hates me, I swear.) And I tilled while he went for a run and the kids stared slack-jawed at Sunday morning cartoons. In a frenzy, I beat the soil into a frothy creamy consistency, to a depth of 8 inches. Or so. I lost 2 fillings and took about 3.5 years off the life of each and every joint in my upper body, but tilled the land was. As Charles was not yet back at the end of all this, I started cramming plants in as fast as possible and got the tomatoes and peppers all in by the time he came home and we all rushed off to achieve the completion of our errands. (Yes, these are usually done Saturday, but the stars, Colin's soccer and Colin's friend's birthday party, along with the sacred time that is Sara's nap, conspired against this.)

Back home, in a flurry of working out, making dinner, and making the dog feel guilty, I got the rest of what I had gathered on Saturday into the ground (cukes, zukes, and a few variety of winter squash). It was then I found the seeds I had planned to start a month ago. Heh. I may throw some in the ground and see what happens (bush beans and yellow fleshed watermelon) but will have to get at least some melons from plantings from another garden store. I don't trust the seeds will have enough time to achieve maturity if started now. I've always found it funny how garden stores out here seem to split up things: One will have 52 varieties of tomatoes but nothing in the melon family. Another has 47 varieties of melon, but no zucchini. Bah. (And please don't tell me how fucking easy zucchini are to grow from seed, like that snotty guy at that one place. Maybe for you, buddy, but me and seeds, not much luck. Don't know why. That's one of the things I need to look into in all my spare time.

After dinner, I dashed back out and put into action the Master Plan to prevent the taking over of the garden by the evil weedy intruders (as opposed to the evil bug intruders). Thanks to an idea from Karen, I put down sheets of newspaper along the 'aisles' of the garden and then covered them with mulch. Sort of a biodegradable weed block. It can just be tilled in with everything at the end of the season. Here's hoping.

So today, Monday: Every big and little muscle aaaachesss. Yes. The tiny muscles in my hands hurt. The miniscule muscles in my fingers whine. For some unfathomable reason, the weeny muscles in my toes (yes! my toes!) are grousing. All but the intrinsic muscles of my face are joined together in one huge gripe fest. Ingrates.

So, that was my weekend. And believe me when I say I actually feel good.