Dirt under the fingernails

Summer Columbine - self planted.

I broke myself this weekend. It was one of those stunning fall weekends that allow to cling to summer hope. Sunny skies and 25c. It was perfect for tackling the slightly neglected backyard. In general, I find our backyard an oasis. Sure, it's a little rustic. Yep, that's a patch of buttercups, and over there are some dandelions, and under that tree there is a haven for clover, but you know what, bees like clover. 

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.