This morning at about 7:30 I rolled out to go assist some old family friends who are involved in the Glastonbury Partners In Planting
project for median beautification on Routh 17. So were were out there in our orange reflective vests with our shovels and rakes and implements of destruction, planting rosebushes (cultivar: Home Run) and phlox, and laying down a one-inch bed of pine bark mulch.
Through vigorous volunteering, I managed to be one of the people who forked the pine bark mulch out of the dump truck. It was absolutely beautiful stuff, fragrant and sweet-smelling, steam tattering from the warm, moist surface when I broke the pile open with the pitchfork. It tumbled around my feet as I forked it, gently warm and scratchy-soft. I was wearing shorts, so I could feel its heat when it drifted around my boots.
The morning was cool and bright, and standing ankle-deep in a pile of composting, gorgeously resinous-smelling plant matter was about the nicest thing I could imagine doing.
Shoveling seven cubic yards of it was still hard work, mind you. But I was still home by noon.
I told netcurmudgeon
that it reminded me of a Richard Brautigan poem:
Loading mercury with a pitchfork
your truck is almost full. The neighbors
take a certain pride in you. They
stand around watching.netcurmudgeon
's response? "For your next trick, are you going to nail Jello to a tree?"
I love that man.
And after a little consideration, it struck me that cling wrap was the solution to both problems.
That poem has always seemed to me to be a pretty good description of my writing process.--Tell her to find me an acre of land
Between the sea and the salty strand--
Anyway, according to Fitday
, 90 minutes of pitchfork work is worth 814 calories for a me-sized person.
So, uh, I'm gonna go have a beer and a bean burrito and see if my blood sugar normalizes. And read misia
's renaissance chapter. And then maybe try to get some words.