Under the sun

I have a plot of ground, fenced against deer and rabbits. The land faces south, on a gentle slope. The earth is gray clay, and I’m suspicious of it. A heavy dump truck brought a pile of compost to the base of the plot, and I’ve been shoveling it into a wheelbarrow, ‘barrowing it up the hill, and spreading it over my future garden.

I find it hard exercise. I like it. Spring seems early this year and I sweat. My neck burns from the sun. There are sharp, unusual pains between my shoulders when I rest before bed, reading with my back pillowed against a wall.

I saw a video of the Speaker of the House of Representatives mowing his lawn. I’m not the only one who likes to get out in the yard, for one reason or another.

I hear the Affordable Care Act is embarrassingly successful. I signed up at once, myself, and save quite a bit of money for having done so.

I guess a lot of folks don’t think the Crimea should really belong to Russia. There have been some boats and planes going down. A lot of us remain surprised how well the global economy functions on currencies with no intrinsic value at all.

My gray clay is going to take some fixing, I think. I spread a thick layer of compost over it, then cover that with a deep layer of straw. I’ll sprinkle the layers once in a while this summer – infrequently, water’s running low. This winter it will rain. Inevitably, the mulch will rot into the clay. Next February or March, I’ll plow it all under and do it again.

 

Comments are closed.