|Summer Columbine - self planted.|
|Finnegan is a fan of the backyard too.|
However, in late August, things start to die. And not the pretty fade or the bright explosion of colour die, but ugly death throws die. And in my OCD brain, something snapped. I couldn't handle it for another season, couldn't face the death and decay of the winter until their spindly corpses get covered by the snow, so I started to pull weeds. At first it was meant to be a clean up, but then it became a war. And when to roots went deeper, so did I, and soon it was trench warfare. The roots went under rocks, so I dug up the rocks. And the rocks became small boulders, so I dug up the boulders. And then I tried to pick up my broken body and saw a giant hole. And it was three hours later, and I hadn't had any water and it was 25c, and I'm crazy.
|Three loads of dirt and rocks galore.|
This weekend, I will rebuild the bed with nice, weed-free soil and use the boulders as stabilising walls. I will plant bulbs that will announce the coming of next year's spring, and save space for a new bunch of perennials that will flow through the summer like a symphony of colour. But this week, I will ice and heat and take ibuprofen and marvel at the hole in the backyard.