Sunday morning. . .
“And every Saturday we work in the yard
Pick up the dog do
Hope that it’s hard (whaf whaf)
Take out the garbage and clean out the garage
My friend’s got a Chrysler
I’ve got a Dodge
We’re just ordinary average guys.”
Sunday was an absolutely gorgeous day. High wispy clouds arced across an otherwise unbroken sky. By 10:00, I was down to a cotton tee shirt.
I’d charged the drill the night before, and in the morning, I’d set to work drilling out a second compost bin to catch the overflow of leaves from the Sweetgum in the front yard. One man’s nuisance is another man’s compost factory.
Once I’d finished with the drill, I began the work of transferring the compost from the old tub to the new one, adding a dry batch of leaves as I went along. The hay fork bit deeply into the pile, seemingly as eager as I was for the work.
After the piles were evened out and watered, I dragged a tarp around to the front of the house and raked the yard. I gathered the leaves and took them back to the compost tubs where I watered them and turned them into the mix.
I collected the strays with a final pass of the rake and spread them over the tops of the containers. I placed the lids back on and put away my tools some two and a half hours after the project began.
As a child whose parents had never owned a home, I was acutely aware of what a blessing it was to work in the yard on a Sunday morning in Autumn, accompanied by the cheerful droning of a lawnmower in the distance.
“It doesn’t take much to make you happy,” a woman I’d worked with once told me. This was meant as a jibe about my apparent lack of concern for the “finer things in life”.
Obviously, for someone with tastes as important as hers, a hay fork and a compost bin could never match that description. But around these parts, they pretty much fit the bill. . .