Ow. Ow. Ow.

So: this weekend was the weekend of mulch. More specifically, “Pacific Fertile Garden Mulch,” also known (after the sniff test) as an approximately 50-50 mixture of compost and steer manure. More specifically yet, 15 cubic yards of this stuff. In our driveway, delivered Friday afternoon.

Lisa had called a landscape contractor after we realized the state the beds in the front yard were in. They recommended 20 cubic yards of mulch and 30 of topsoil. We decided they were out of line, so we cut back the request for mulch by 5 cubic yards and eliminated the topsoil. Good decision, in retrospect, but not nearly enough.

I knew we were in trouble when by Friday night at 6 (after two hours of work) I had shifted hardly any of the pile and only succeeded in covering a few beds. The next day I mowed the lawn, helped Lisa prime and sand some more paint on the exterior of the old part of the house, then we moved about a third of the remaining pile. I was so sore by 5 pm that I could hardly stand. So we called in reinforcements.

Today our very special friends Ed and Gina gamely showed up with a shovel and a rake and helped us move the rest of the pile. All of it. It ended up in the beds under the trees where the pine needles had built up for twenty years, the beds around the fence, the back beds, a bed against the house, my clothes, Ed’s clothes, Gina’s clothes, Lisa’s clothes, our wheelbarrow, our neighbor’s wheelbarrow, and most of all my driveway, where Lisa was able to wash most of the remaining dust into the gutter.

I don’t hurt too much yet, but it’s only a matter of time.

Ah well. As Lisa said, “Never again will we order 15 cubic yards of anything.