It started with three small bins of mulch that a neighbor
was giving away. Before I had a chance to decide where to put it, a tree
trimming service called with an offer I could not refuse.
“We have half a truckload of mulch to give away. It’s pretty
good stuff.”
“Sure, I’ll take it,” I replied, having no idea how much
mulch equaled half a load. I have a big yard with lots of weeds on the rampage
this time of year. I was already tired of digging and pulling them. Covering
them up seemed a great option.
Then I left town with a small note indicating where the
mulch was to be dumped. I learned that the hard way when a few years ago a load
of mulch was dumped in my single car driveway and I could not get my car out of
the garage.
When I got home a few days ago, there was a big pile
awaiting me beside my driveway. It
looked like a lot. It was. I am now on day four of hauling around wheelbarrows
of the stuff, dumping and spreading it. Current count: a total of 71 loads moved.
The pile is shrinking. I probably have about 20 loads to
go—maybe more. This morning, at load 10,
it began to rain. I was grateful.
My yard looks better. My body knows it has done something.
There are wood chips everywhere; inside my gloves, sticking to my pants, inside
my shoes, on my kitchen floor.
I hope it keeps raining for a while.
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