How Many Bricks Can I Move?

July birdbath and paths; Deb Marshall photo

Here’s the tally, mid-July: I’ve moved 232 cement pavers, 176 bricks, 22 bags of pebbles, and 52 bags of cedar mulch, and a couple of times I’ve picked up a significant number of those pavers I turned into walkways through the garden and then put them back again in a slightly different way, and I have to do that again before I’m done – half the weed-blocking fabric I used doesn’t actually block weeds, so I need to lift the long walks – why is it always the longest bits that need re-doing? – and line them with the good stuff, which I went on a search for and found in Lebanon when the local place ran out, then replace the pavers. It’s exhausting thinking about it.

But – wow, it looks good! I wasn’t sure I was going to like it, either for walking on or for looks. But it looks good, and will look even better next year when the pavers take on a little character (moss, lichen, dirt). And to my surprise, I don’t mind walking on it, sometimes even barefoot, and it keeps my feet a lot cleaner than the old straw paths did, and even than the cedar mulch does. And it has the advantage of retaining and releasing heat – the beds I’ve surrounded with paved paths have huge, happy tomato plants and runner bean vines. 

One of the wooden paths; Deb Marshall photo

I’ve done about half the garden, so there are still two paths lined with wood, which I also like, and two which I covered with cedar mulch on top of (unfortunately) the useless weed-not-blocking fabric, which I’ll need to redo before summer’s end, and the long path through the former wasteland, which is now cedar mulch on top of the good stuff. 

The long cedar path through the wasteland; Deb Marshall photo

Some of my naybahs are probably wondering what I’ve been doing parking behind the giant sand hill the town left when they moved the town shed to a new location, and along the road I live on and the road behind, which leads to Naybah Eddie’s place. I’m going to confess: I’m picking rocks. When I walk the old Barkie Boy, I keep my eyes open for rocks on the side of the road that have been kicked up by the winter snowplows, that are: 1. Small enough for me to lift into the back seat of the car; 2. Big enough to serve as a planting bed edger, so I don’t have to buy a zillion more bricks; and 3. Free, and probably in the road crew’s way, anyway. I’ve scored some good ones, but lost a few when the road crew beat me to it and tossed them out of the way of their verge-cutting machinery, smack into a bed of poison ivy. Which, by the way, is exceptionally vigorous this year, in case you haven’t noticed. 

A critter has moved into the working compost pile; it spent several days digging itself a lovely entrance and kicking almost-finished compost out of its new digs. I don’t know what it is – haven’t seen or heard it, and unlike last time we had a funky thing in the compost, I haven’t caught a scent that might identify it, yet. Catmandoo has strong feelings about whatever it is – he carefully sniffed all over the area soon after the critter moved in, then backed up to the compost bin and peed all over it. So there, critter! 

This year's critter hole; Deb Marshall photo

I just hope it’s a rodent-eating critter; even more than mousies, this year, there’s a chipmunk explosion. Cute as they are, the field is literally mushy with their tunnels, and there’s a tunnel opening in nearly every garden bed. So far they’ve eaten my pumpkin plant and chopped down two tomatoes, and one of the pesty buggers sits on the remains of last year’s woodpile, just outside my bedroom window, and scolds and scolds for an hour every morning, beginning at 6 am, which as far as I’m concerned is a hellish hour of the day to be woken up, even less to be scolded by a pipsqueak.

Today is day two of long rains, so badly needed this year. The ponds on either side of my little island are very low, and the garden dirt is very dry, and in spite of how hellishly humid it is, making the old Barkie Boy and me feel sluggish and godawful, I won’t complain if it continues all week. After our last single day of rain, the peas suddenly plumped out and everything grew mightily; a week of rain would be near heaven.

I haven’t seen Old Lady Snapper this year, nor any other turtle, either, and I’m not sure what that means. Much of the garden perennials are ahead of themselves – volunteer sunflowers blooming and going to seed a month early, carrots trying to flower before forming much of a root, bee balm in full flower for a couple of weeks now, fall raspberries  ripening along with the earlier ones, and blueberries ripening weeks before their time. This past weekend I spent a good part of a day cleaning the mousie poop out of my car – a mousie car invasion at this time of year is unusual, too. Well – the whole world seems turned upside-down, so I suppose my micro-world shouldn’t be very different.

There’s a doe with two fawns, still in their fading, baby dotsy coats, that I’ve seen around the edges of our field several times this summer, and her larger hoof-prints, and their smaller ones, criss-cross the sandy town shed lot, and their scat catches the Barkie Boy’s attention up and down our long driveway. Yesterday the two children spent some time playing just beyond our garden in the field, venturing as close as the apple tree, but so far not trying the garden itself. I’m hoping the fence plus the paved walks plus the massed tomato cages and wooden paths will discourage them. I’ve never had deer problems in the garden, probably because the scent of dogs has always been quite prevalent, but the old Barkie Boy does less verge patrolling and peeing this summer, and he spends less time outdoors, so all bets are off.

Clove pinks and bee balm; Deb Marshall photo

 

There’s also a nestfull of baby birds in the birdhouse on the garden arch. I still can’t see into that birdhouse, but I’ve seen the parents bringing goodies to the babies, and as I watched one of the babies hopped up and stuck its head out of the hole to cry mama in. If I stand under the arch behind the birdhouse I can hear the frantic, hungry peeping. I haven’t caught a close-up look at the parents, so I know only that they’re a small browny bird, but larger than the little ones that scolded me so who nested in the other birdhouse; and they’re much calmer about me being near their house. I was watching them from the blueberry patch the other day and then turned my head to look at a spot some rustling was coming from, only to find myself face to face with a triplet of cedar waxwings, which were incredibly beautiful, bronzy, mask-eyed beings. We stared at each other awhile, me trying to think what they could be (I had to look them up); then we both moved. Soon after I was pleased to hear birdybirdybirdy  calls from the near woods, so I know there are also cardinals nesting nearby. How great is it that the cardinal call is birdy?

Now it’s raining again. It’s time to bring the soaked Furry People in from their under the tent chairs on the wart, and take my summer cold and a cup of coffee to the couch for a nap. While it’s raining this hard, there’s no question about whether I’m going to be in the garden humping more pavers and bricks around – a welcome break in the air conditioning, out of the heat and humidity.

Bunny peas; Deb Marshall photo

Now, if only the hot-air blowhard in DC would only shut down long enough for us all to get a well-deserved break, we might face the world with refreshed minds and calmer emotions. And I wouldn’t feel it’s necessary to end a story about my garden with a political comment. 

If only.


For the blog alone.