It is 9:21 on a mid-June morning with the majesty of the mountains in the west wind. The sprinklers gave a 24-minute drink to the rock garden so my goal is to attack while the devils are loosened. I smooth 30 SPF sheer touch sunscreen on the end of my nose and exposed lower arms, grab the DEET and dab some around my ankles--no inseam bugs on my chore blue jeans wanted--position my prescription sunglasses, firmly tie on my coolie hat, re-position my sunglasses, use the long metal shoehorn to slide on my tied and tired runners, Velcro my sky blue foam knee pads, shake out my stiff jade gardening gloves with the forest-green palms, and exit the attached garage.
Hayley--our seven-year old golden retriever--dashes to my side, pendulum tail eager. Her chocolate eyes look at me and then in the direction of the swing where she pretends to be my 65 pound lap of love. "Later, now it's time to weed," I tell her.
I stride to my husband-built sturdy wooden bench. I rummage in the ample container on the shelf and pull out trowel, trimmers, and a long-handled screwdriver. I right the tangerine wheelbarrow left nearby, dump the tools in it, accelerate down the knoll to the walk-out side of the house, and make a quick right into the rock garden.
The rock garden was the first area developed when we moved to the acreage almost nine years ago. My husband and his backhoe-experienced friend had artfully used the natural slope to position sandstone as borders. Flat rocks were placed as foot pads. Guarding the entrance to the rock garden on the left is my grandmother's Hansa rose bush which has followed us faithfully, still promising fuchsia. On the right, Pink Beauty potentilla branches lean toward the rose bush.
The sun is already adding to my freckles. I sigh as I look at the mess of thyme, budding dandelions, flowering strawberries, quack grass, perky columbines, the odd thistle, brave Cerastium, more sprouting dandelions, the fusty sedum, more quack grass masking as leaves on the Stella D'Or daylily, and the delicate white bleeding heart buds. Somewhere the stone foot pads are lurking and two variegated hostas are hoping to be found.
I kneel, grab my screwdriver and start on a patch near the rose bush. Insert screwdriver into the responsive earth, circle the screwdriver around finishing with an upward thrust, fling the weed in the direction of the waiting wheelbarrow, inhale the topsoil/clay mix, repeat. I passionately rip out an invading tangy thyme plant.
Above the American goldfinch's indrawn breaths and the cheerful chickadee's declaration, I hear panting and look for Hayley. Dirt is flying on the crest of the knoll as she attempts to dig out a gopher. I clamber to my feet, shouting, "No digging up the grass." The now upright gopher smiles from the safety of its back door. Hayley's rapt face turns, bits of clay clinging to her whiskers. I hoist myself up and locate the half-chewed bone I gave her this morning. She sprawls, happily gnawing.
Twenty minutes since I started preparing to weed, and I have a total of eleven offerings in the wheelbarrow.
*************************************************************************************
And, I can hardly wait to start the process again this spring!
Hayley--our seven-year old golden retriever--dashes to my side, pendulum tail eager. Her chocolate eyes look at me and then in the direction of the swing where she pretends to be my 65 pound lap of love. "Later, now it's time to weed," I tell her.
I stride to my husband-built sturdy wooden bench. I rummage in the ample container on the shelf and pull out trowel, trimmers, and a long-handled screwdriver. I right the tangerine wheelbarrow left nearby, dump the tools in it, accelerate down the knoll to the walk-out side of the house, and make a quick right into the rock garden.
The rock garden was the first area developed when we moved to the acreage almost nine years ago. My husband and his backhoe-experienced friend had artfully used the natural slope to position sandstone as borders. Flat rocks were placed as foot pads. Guarding the entrance to the rock garden on the left is my grandmother's Hansa rose bush which has followed us faithfully, still promising fuchsia. On the right, Pink Beauty potentilla branches lean toward the rose bush.
The sun is already adding to my freckles. I sigh as I look at the mess of thyme, budding dandelions, flowering strawberries, quack grass, perky columbines, the odd thistle, brave Cerastium, more sprouting dandelions, the fusty sedum, more quack grass masking as leaves on the Stella D'Or daylily, and the delicate white bleeding heart buds. Somewhere the stone foot pads are lurking and two variegated hostas are hoping to be found.
I kneel, grab my screwdriver and start on a patch near the rose bush. Insert screwdriver into the responsive earth, circle the screwdriver around finishing with an upward thrust, fling the weed in the direction of the waiting wheelbarrow, inhale the topsoil/clay mix, repeat. I passionately rip out an invading tangy thyme plant.
Above the American goldfinch's indrawn breaths and the cheerful chickadee's declaration, I hear panting and look for Hayley. Dirt is flying on the crest of the knoll as she attempts to dig out a gopher. I clamber to my feet, shouting, "No digging up the grass." The now upright gopher smiles from the safety of its back door. Hayley's rapt face turns, bits of clay clinging to her whiskers. I hoist myself up and locate the half-chewed bone I gave her this morning. She sprawls, happily gnawing.
Twenty minutes since I started preparing to weed, and I have a total of eleven offerings in the wheelbarrow.
*************************************************************************************
And, I can hardly wait to start the process again this spring!
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