Good Friday 2017

It's all The Husband's fault (isn't it always?).

I was sitting on the back porch yesterday morning, playing Solitaire, drinking coffee, minding my own business, when The Husband said, "The wind isn't blowing much today.  I think I'll burn that pile of sticks."

Well.

That pile of sticks had been laying in the outskirts of the yard for TWO YEARS.  During that time, it had transformed itself from a loose, head-high mountain to a compact, knee-high heap.  It needed to go.  The Husband struck a match, and within minutes the flames were so high and hot that he had to stand back 15 feet to keep from getting roasted, himself.

Between him and me, there was an un-sprung mole trap that had been sitting, locked and loaded and idle, for a week.  When I noticed it, I decided to move it to another of the hundreds of mole tunnels that are disfiguring our yard.  As I was hunting for a better spot, I noticed all kinds of things that needed doing.  There were saplings springing up in flower beds, dead limbs that needed to be removed from the Sweet Betsy bush, and a concrete planter on a concrete pedestal that had settled into soft ground (probably the mole's doing) and needed moving.

The Husband gave me The Look when I said we ought to move the planter, but he helped me load it into a wheel barrow, one heavy piece at a time, and move it to a different spot in the yard.  Naturally, in its new location, the planter begged for flowers.  I took The Husband's truck to the garden center and came home with potting soil, flowers, herbs, seeds, blueberry bushes, and two 6-packs of tomato plants.

In retrospect - and I was retrospecting about this even as I drove home - the tomato plants were a mistake.

You see, I had not yet readied a garden spot for the tomato plants and, more importantly, we were  planning to be gone from home for a week, starting in two days; if I did not get those tomato plants in the ground before the trip, they would die of thirst in their little plastic cartons before we came back home.  Seven dollars and 99 cents' worth of plants, just gone.  Unconscionable. 

So after I planted the flowers and the herbs and the seeds and the blueberry bushes, and after The Husband and I had finished eating our fried bologna sandwiches and were resting on the back porch, I said to The Husband, "I think I'll go plow up a row in the garden for these tomato plants."

Talk about getting The Look.  While I had been puttering around the yard with shovels and loppers, he had been push-mowing the yard, and he was tired and well smoked from the fire, and was probably thinking about a shower and a lazy afternoon in front of a television. 

I said, "I saw that Look.  You don't have to help.  I've got it."  And I meant it.  For real.

I went inside, got my hat and some fresh gloves, topped off my water glass, grabbed my Jeep keys, and drove down to the garden (I knew I'd never make it back up Nanny's driveway on foot once I got through with the plowing). 

I LOVE TO RUN THAT PLOW.  For real.  I love the smell of the dirt.  I love watching those weeds being yanked from the ground.  I love pulverized soil!

I dragged the tiller out of the shed.  IT CRANKED ON THE VERY FIRST PULL. 

I thought, "This was meant to be." 

I put 'er in gear and headed for the garden, and as I tilled, the voices of my fathers spoke to me. 

It was Good Friday, and as the tiller tines bit into the dirt, I heard my Daddy say, "Thangs planted on Good Friday s'posed to come up in three days."  I fought that tiller down the row, and as I turned it around for the second pass and saw how my work was more serpentine than straight, I heard my father-in-law say, "You'c'n plant more on a crooked row."  HAH!  Those two....  :)

Anyway....

As I was coming back up the row, fighting that tiller, trying to straighten out the curves, I looked up and saw The Husband and The Grown Nephew standing at the end of the row, their arms folded across their chests, just watching.  When I got closer, The Grown Nephew had the audacity to comment (with a snaking hand sign, mind you) on the crookedness of my row.  I gave him two hand signs of my own, one of which invited him to take over the tilling.  He shook his head and waved me off, shouting he'd probably do worse. 

The Husband continued to give me The Look.

Then Nanny drove up.  She'd taken The Grown Nephew's little daughter shopping for an Easter dress.  They went inside, changed clothes, and came out to the garden.

You should have seen how fast both The Husband and The Nephew offered to take over the tilling when Nanny came out.

But thank goodness she did come out, for as I was fighting the tiller toward her, Nanny noticed that one of the tiller tires was flat.  The Husband and The Nephew sprang into action, and within minutes, I was back at work. 

It is amazing how much easier it is to steer a tiller when both of the tires are the same.  :)

I ended up tilling the whole garden - seven rows, with ample space for a riding lawnmower to go down the un-tilled middles.  My subsequent rows were straighter, thanks to the un-flat tire and my late father-in-law's whisper, "Pick you out something at the far end of the row and aim the tiller at it and your rows'll be straight."  Good advice, Pop-Pop, good advice.

The next time The Husband offered to take over the tilling, I said, "I'd rather you'd go buy me 10 bags of cow poop."  And HE DID IT.

I was working on the last row when he returned with the composted manure.  He and Nanny opened the bags and sprinkled the poo in the first few rows while I drank some water and cooled off.  Then he took on the job of running the tiller over those rows to work the manure into the soil while I rested and finished my water on the tailgate of his truck. 

All of my joints locked up in the five minutes I sat on the tailgate.  When I slid off the tailgate to plant the #)@&! tomatoes, it felt like my leg bones racked into my shoulder blades.  After planting that last #!(#% tomato, I thought I was probably going to have to sleep in the garden, as I could not get up.

Lord, have mercy on me!

And on The Husband, too!