We all have tasks that we avoid until the last possible minute – tasks that, had we the money, we would never do again. Within my four walls, bathroom cleaning tops the list, followed in rapid succession by paying bills and clipping the nails of a reticent Labrador.
Things are no different in the garden, no matter how much time, energy and love I put into my green kingdom. There are jobs that weary me to the core – such as weeding. There are jobs that threaten to destroy my sanity with their tediousness – such as watering. But the worst job – the job that screams for a plump checkbook and the guts to sign my name is the act of digging a hole.
I am not adverse to hard labor (as the birth of my children and all days thereafter will attest), but the thought of coming home from a nice little jaunt at the nursery or plant swap with six treasures in tow and having to pull out a shovel and dig six holes of measureable size, twice as wide as deep, through root and stone, clay and bedrock, brings out the industrial strength procrastinator in me.
Digging can be immensely satisfying when one has amended beds with all manner of compost, excavated in the past to a depth of five feet, and eradicated anything resembling a tree from within a square mile of the point of one’s shovel. The delicious feeling of having a spade sink effortlessly through a mouth-watering mix of all things soft and friable is one of those deep pleasures that happen rarely in life, and should be savored like a fine wine or a clean bathroom.
However, the 12-step reality of digging anything chez Willburn is as follows:
1) Locate spade after ten-minute search (the tool having been moved by tiny hands to a remote corner of the garden)
2) Muse for several minutes over whether or not I feel like sharpening it
3) Decide against it
4) Launch full weight onto spade and bounce off – jarring entire body – as it encounters the first of many underground obstacles
5) Sharpen spade
6) Repeat step four
7) Realize that root loppers, small trowel, hair clip, handkerchief, forty minutes and a pair of foam padded gloves will be necessary to continue in this, the thirteenth labor of Hercules.
8) Start to cry softly, but with dignity
9) Go find my husband, beg for help and be rejected mercilessly.
10) Throw fish sticks in the oven for dinner, chill a large bottle of Pinot Grigio, put on my soldier’s face and enter Dante’s seventh circle.
11) Spend forty minutes mixing tears with soil
12) Plant the little taskmasters and completely forget to water them until the next day, having opened the Pinot Grigio thirty-nine minutes ahead of time.
As sad as this scenario sounds, there are those who have it worse. My poor parents, already struggling against the red clay and decomposed granite of an unforgiving California hillside, must also build individual wire baskets for any and all plantings to protect them from the root-devouring machinations of the Western pocket gopher. After a day spent hewing earth and fiddling with quarter inch hardware cloth till your fingers bleed, saner persons might ask the question “Where’s the nearest farmer’s market?”