I bought some dirt. Some lovely gardening soil, actually, but for all I know, it's dirt. It's always dirt. And it's never going to be anything other than dirt, unless I have to pay over fifty bucks a cubic yard for it, in which case it will be somebody else's dirt, because that's just not happening.
So I bought some dirt. It's got lovely organic matter mixed into it, according to the specifications. Not to be a ninny though, but I kind of thought you couldn't get much more organic than dirt to begin with. God made dirt and dirt don't hurt, so eat the weiner you dropped on the ground already.
Anyway, a humongo dump truck pulled up in front of the house yesterday, on a balmy spring afternoon where temperatures were rapidly climbing into the mid 80's. He honked. I went out and pointed the approximate goal for the dirt because everything is debatable when you have an entire dump truck ready to rumble across your lawn. What is it anyway, about great big trucks and little bitty drivers? Compensate much?
My friend Deb and her lovely Matteo were visiting, too, to get some chairs that match the table they have in either the house or the art bodega. And they also picked up a bunch of other stuff that will be repurposed, but was called "shit in the garage" as late as Monday afternoon. Seriously, the truck they borrowed looked like the home for orphan bowling balls, fabric remnants, and wrapping paper they really didn't want but got suckered into taking anyway.
When the truck honked, we'd been gorging on some gorgeous shrimp, crackers and cheese. Then it became a party when we all went out and watched the little bitty man back the big truck right up onto the lawn and dump the dirt. In our neighborhood, for no other reason than surplus bricks, we all have brick mailboxes. And every mailbox seems to line up with the driveway across the street from it. The neighbors also insist on parking their car, their work van, and the teenage son's girlfriend's car right at the end of our driveway too. Most days we're lucky to get into our own driveway.
I thought about it, for about a minute, when the driver was getting closer and closer to hitting the teenage son's car, as he kept doing his 3 point turns to get into the right spot on the grass, and then went and knocked on the door to ask the teenage son to move it. I'm very generous, I know. You should all be so lucky to live across the street from me.
Long story short, sevennnnnnnnnnnn yards of dirt were sitting in the front yard, on a serious spread of leaves, since the live oaks don't seem to know they're supposed to drop their leaves in the fall, not the spring. The driver pulled off. Matteo offered to shovel and I waved him off because he had a bathroom to finish back home at their bed and breakfast. And a lovely late morning turned into an afternoon of work.
It's cool though. Mom and I shoveled and wheeled, and got the garden beds all filled up. Then I ran the lines across them to create the "foot" sections of the square foot garden fame. We're sure to deviate from that crap in about a hot minute because rules don't mean much to us, but I thought I'd start us off at least attempting to follow directions. (That's kind of how I bake, too, now that I think about it, which explains the really flat, really yummy macaroons I made the other day.)
It was a good day.
And then we woke up and had to shovel more dirt. Damn dirt.
Today was the front yard, to try and give the oak trees back some dirt on the roots, and fill in the flower beds. Mom was working. I was working. We were working. And then she noticed the lawn crew up the street. And then she went inside, got some cash, walked down the street, and a half hour later had someone else working while we rested. Great work Mom. Seriously. You rock.
And now....
The garden beds....
(Shut up. I know there's nothing in them yet.)
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