Playing in the Dirt
FIrst of all we need to get something straight, I’m not a gardener. There are too many visions that pop into my head when I hear that word and not one of them looks remotely like me. I prefer to say I’m playing in the dirt.
I was sitting inside yesterday afternoon trying to work on the computer but the satellite internet was not cooperating. Sweat was dripping into my eyes and when I looked at the thermometer it said 89 degrees, that was inside. 87 degrees outside sounded much better to me so I outside I went.
There are always weeds to be pulled and I am forever trying to determine what plants and flowers look best where. I am pretty sure I change my mind about what looks best as often as my daughter changes her mind about which winter sport to participate in, but that’s a whole different story. I decided to move some of my nasty, prickly, red bushes; I think they are called barberry. I dug and sweated, sweated and dug, pulled and yanked and yanked and pulled until finally all remaining roots had been yanked off of the main plant or cut with the shovel and the bush was finally free. I then took two scoops with a camp trowel to make a shallow indentation in the dirt and stuffed the nasty red bush on top of it, mindlessly brushing some dirt its way. I proceeded to follow the same procedure four more times until all of the nasty bushes had been moved.
By this time I was covered in dirt from head to toe so the only option I had was to go swimming. I normally take a long time to get into the water but yesterday the water felt so good I just waded right in. It was suprisingly warm and felt absolutely wonderful.
After cooling off I went back to work barefoot and wearing my dripping wet clothes. Bandanna wrapped around my head to keep the sweat from dripping in my eyes I went to look for more plants to butcher. Imagine the thoughts of the District Ranger from the USFS as he approached me in all of my glory. Needless to say, I was not a pretty sight. After a very quick visit with him I set about to find my next victim.
My next victims were some sorry looking blue rugs, I think that’s what they are called. Transplanted with my special care it doesn’t matter what you call them as soon they will be dead. Could removing big bushes be considered weeding?
Call it what you will. I enjoyed playing in the dirt and I especially enjoyed cooling off in the river. I will give you fair warning, if it’s as hot as it was yesterday and you decide to take a drive up the Gunflint Trail, then don’t be surprised if you stop at Voyageur and see me playing in the dirt or dripping wet in my clothes.