I gave my favorite shovel a good push; it should have glided smoothly into the soil, but no: the dull blade-end grudgingly parted the earth, grumbling the whole time, along with my arms and back. That tool desperately needed sharpening, a boring job I’d kept putting off. Dumb.
Fifteen minutes later I’d hand-filed a sharp edge. Oh, such a difference! The shovel slid into the earth, quiet as a breath, taking a nice, dirt-y bite with minimal effort from steerage. But, of course, now it was getting really hot. And the job before me was difficult: Four hydrangea shrubs that had refused to bloom for three years in a row would go. (A late frost had killed the buds on these older shrubs: only lush green leaves, bare of blooms, showed.) Now I’d have to do the job in heat, and replant the new ones as well. Served me right.
In the cool of evening I sharpened other constantly used tools, adding oil to the blades after removing stubborn, crusted soil with my wire brush. Hanging on the wall, their business ends filed and gleaming, the tools were ready for work. I’d reach for them enthusiastically now, knowing they’d be as sharp as I wish I were.
It seems I’m always in a hurry, cramming umpteen garden jobs into a small time frame, especially when the temperature rapidly rises to the humid 80s. In my eagerness to be done with garden chores before nine o’clock, I’ll get careless. For example, I’ll lay hand pruners, garden gloves or my phone atop piles of garden debris just for a second, then absently continue to add rabbit-gnawed stems and weeds to the heap and toss the lot into in a huge alley rubbish bin, forgetting that things I care about are included.
I did manage to save one fairly new phone, only because it distantly rang before I walked away. After a frantic search I located it under two feet of wet garden debris. But even that near disaster didn’t hammer the lesson home. Soon after, my gloves disappeared. I haven’t bothered to wade through the multiple bins to retrieve them.
One day I wrestled with an elderly 50-foot long hose. After laying it out to undo the kinks I screwed it to my hose-end sprayer so I could feed annuals. Huh. No proper pressure. After an inspection I discovered two good-sized punctures in the hose’s middle that were too large to mend with tape. Well, the darn thing had lasted some years, but why did it have to fail today? Cross, too hot and tired from nearly three hours of gardening, I gathered it up and chucked it the rubbish bin.
A trip to Ace Hardware was necessary.
The next day I trudged out to the alley with bagged kitchen garbage and glimpsed a high-quality brass spray nozzle sitting way down at the bottom of the big alley bin, still attached to the holey hose. Stupid me!
Now, how to get it out?
I stepped on the bin’s foot-bar, leaned in… reached… nope. Not even close. On tiptoes, bent double now, I reached even further down into the depths… and slipped in too far. The lid dropped onto my ankles; my shabbily shod feet were all that remained visible. Upside down, head resting on a stuffed trash bag, I was the poster child for that slogan: “People make their own problems.”
I managed to raise myself by degrees up the bin’s filthy edges, fling the heavy lid open, and extract myself, all the while clutching the brass nozzle, which was still attached to the dead hose.
Imagine if someone passing by had noticed my shod feet sticking out? (Aha! Dee’s husband’s had enough: she’s been dumped.)
I’d never live it down.
Yesterday I heard a squeak, then a splash. An inquisitive young chipmunk had tumbled into the fountain pool! (They’re so curious they have to inspect everything.) It swam frantically toward my newly installed wide, stiff wire screen ‘chipmunk emergency’ ladder. (I’d found a drowned ‘munk’ in there a few weeks ago. The pool’s smooth edges had made escape impossible. What an awful death!)
Scrambling up the screen this little guy bounced out onto the big slab stones that surrounded the pool and dashed off, chittering in relief, while I cheered.
I’d learned from the previous drowning, anticipated what might happen, and was rewarded for my efforts.
Ah, there’s hope for this girl.
Fifteen minutes later I’d hand-filed a sharp edge. Oh, such a difference! The shovel slid into the earth, quiet as a breath, taking a nice, dirt-y bite with minimal effort from steerage. But, of course, now it was getting really hot. And the job before me was difficult: Four hydrangea shrubs that had refused to bloom for three years in a row would go. (A late frost had killed the buds on these older shrubs: only lush green leaves, bare of blooms, showed.) Now I’d have to do the job in heat, and replant the new ones as well. Served me right.
In the cool of evening I sharpened other constantly used tools, adding oil to the blades after removing stubborn, crusted soil with my wire brush. Hanging on the wall, their business ends filed and gleaming, the tools were ready for work. I’d reach for them enthusiastically now, knowing they’d be as sharp as I wish I were.
It seems I’m always in a hurry, cramming umpteen garden jobs into a small time frame, especially when the temperature rapidly rises to the humid 80s. In my eagerness to be done with garden chores before nine o’clock, I’ll get careless. For example, I’ll lay hand pruners, garden gloves or my phone atop piles of garden debris just for a second, then absently continue to add rabbit-gnawed stems and weeds to the heap and toss the lot into in a huge alley rubbish bin, forgetting that things I care about are included.
I did manage to save one fairly new phone, only because it distantly rang before I walked away. After a frantic search I located it under two feet of wet garden debris. But even that near disaster didn’t hammer the lesson home. Soon after, my gloves disappeared. I haven’t bothered to wade through the multiple bins to retrieve them.
One day I wrestled with an elderly 50-foot long hose. After laying it out to undo the kinks I screwed it to my hose-end sprayer so I could feed annuals. Huh. No proper pressure. After an inspection I discovered two good-sized punctures in the hose’s middle that were too large to mend with tape. Well, the darn thing had lasted some years, but why did it have to fail today? Cross, too hot and tired from nearly three hours of gardening, I gathered it up and chucked it the rubbish bin.
A trip to Ace Hardware was necessary.
The next day I trudged out to the alley with bagged kitchen garbage and glimpsed a high-quality brass spray nozzle sitting way down at the bottom of the big alley bin, still attached to the holey hose. Stupid me!
Now, how to get it out?
I stepped on the bin’s foot-bar, leaned in… reached… nope. Not even close. On tiptoes, bent double now, I reached even further down into the depths… and slipped in too far. The lid dropped onto my ankles; my shabbily shod feet were all that remained visible. Upside down, head resting on a stuffed trash bag, I was the poster child for that slogan: “People make their own problems.”
I managed to raise myself by degrees up the bin’s filthy edges, fling the heavy lid open, and extract myself, all the while clutching the brass nozzle, which was still attached to the dead hose.
Imagine if someone passing by had noticed my shod feet sticking out? (Aha! Dee’s husband’s had enough: she’s been dumped.)
I’d never live it down.
Yesterday I heard a squeak, then a splash. An inquisitive young chipmunk had tumbled into the fountain pool! (They’re so curious they have to inspect everything.) It swam frantically toward my newly installed wide, stiff wire screen ‘chipmunk emergency’ ladder. (I’d found a drowned ‘munk’ in there a few weeks ago. The pool’s smooth edges had made escape impossible. What an awful death!)
Scrambling up the screen this little guy bounced out onto the big slab stones that surrounded the pool and dashed off, chittering in relief, while I cheered.
I’d learned from the previous drowning, anticipated what might happen, and was rewarded for my efforts.
Ah, there’s hope for this girl.