Work-Day Artistry

Negotiating Tight Spaces with a Big Truck; Deb Marshall photo

 

Sometime kinda earlyish summer I decided I’m too old and too poor to keep gardening the way I have been. My garden is a huge part of our food for the year – I fill the medium-sized freezer with stuff that comes out of the garden, and part of the big freezer with stuff I made with stuff that came out of the garden, and on a good year, I’ll also have several baskets full of winter squashes stored under the dining room table, several skeins of onions and shallots hanging from pegs in the kitchen, a big basket full of potatoes in the pantry, and many bags of frozen herbs in the frig freezer. All this stuff becomes soup, which is breakfast, and sometimes supper, all year round.

The house and the back forty, where the garden is, are smack dab in the middle of what was a cow pasture when I was a kid, and 30 years ago when we bought a chunk of it from the folks who kept the cows, we discovered that under the grass there was about 2 inches of the hardest-packed hardpan I’ve ever heard of – we couldn’t fork it up, the rototiller made no impression on it, the neighbor’s tractor was beat by it. Under those two inches of hardpan are many feet of sand, which we know only because we saw it when the backhoe dug our cellarhole. We threw our hands up in surrender, built some raised-bed frames, lined them with cardboard and lots of newspaper, and brought in topsoil. Since then, the garden’s gotten bigger thanks to 30 years of composting and some judicious application of cow and horse poop. 

Also, for 30 years, I’ve been lining the paths between the beds with thick layers of newspaper and saved flattened cardboard boxes, which I then pile high with straw, in an attempt to kill off the grass that won’t grow in the rest of the field – most of the land around my house is covered with thyme, which apparently doesn’t mind nasty soil – but which loves, loves, loves my garden. Every year I’ve spent a stupid amount of money on bales and bales and bales of straw in an attempt to make my weeding chores easier. And every year, all that lovely paper and straw breaks down and makes a lovely rich hummus that the grass loves, and I get to do it all over again, generally losing the battle with the grass about half-way through summer.

Passion flower and Kaffir Lime; Deb Marshall photo

This year I decided I’m just too old to battle grass, and the garden’s really too big for one person with a full-time job to care for and preserve all its bounty. The Husband tries to help, but if the chore doesn’t involve a gas-powered engine, he’s kinda useless – city boy. So I thought, even if I can only afford to do the weediest pathways, I should start doing something more permanently anti-grass; so I went down to Belletetes, our local building supply/garden center, to inquire about  mulches that don’t break down as fast as straw does, and maybe would discourage grass and --- possibly --- ticks!

Turns out big bags of cedar, and small heavy bags of pebbles, are cheaper than straw – who would have guessed? If you put weed-blocking fabric under them, they work even better. And in the case of pebbles, once down the job’s done – you don’t need to put more down next year. Huh.

“So,” I asked on a whim, “how much do bricks cost? And do you have anything bigger than bricks that might make sense in a garden path?”

Oh, yeah. There are all sorts of things like bricks that can be used to make a garden path, and all of them are things you don’t have to put down again next year – or the year after, or ever, unless you decide to change the whole design. And they aren’t all that expensive – well, some of them are, but a fair number aren’t. Compared to what I was spending yearly on straw, they’ll be a lot cheaper, because I won’t have to buy them again next year.

But that isn’t the story I want to tell you. Here’s the actual story:

Confab; the Husband and the Artist; Deb Marshall photo

Getting the heavy straw alternatives  the 3.5 miles up the road to my house in the trunk of my car was going to take forever, not to mention that I’d have to lift the darn things into and out of the trunk and then again to put them into the garden. I am not a masochist. “So, how much does it cost to have you guys deliver this stuff?” I did some quick math – “Do it!” I said. And they did.

A couple of days later a gimongous truck showed up at my kitchen door, after navigating my narrow and difficult driveway. On the back was my single pallet loaded with bags of cedar, bags of pebbles, and some cement pavers to experiment with. “Where do you want it?” the driver asked. “Well,” I said. “Where I need it is over by the rhubarb – way over there. Which is only accessible by driving between the corner of the house and the well head, which is in front of the garage. On an angle.”

Mike S - the Artist; Deb Marshall photo

“No problem,” he said. And then the most amazing and beautiful thing happened. He – Mike Selinka, he turned out to be – eased the front of the gigantic truck between the house corner and the well head, then hopped out and pulled out some braces on either side of the truck, did something that made the cab of the truck change height, and unbuckled the straps holding my pallet. He tossed the end of the strap over the top of the pallet to the other side of the truck, and it went over in a beautiful, graceful arc, like it was dancing; and the second strap followed, just as gracefully. Then he climbed up on the top near the cab, where there was, magically, a seat; and from that spot, he did the most intricate and delicate  ballet with the articulated arm that sets across the load bed of the truck. 

I’ve never seen this kind of equipment in use up close, and I was watching from only about 10 feet away. It was breath-taking. In Mike’s skilled hands, that long, giant hunk of metal and mechanics moved like a live being with fingers and wrist and elbow all smoothly opening and closing and turning and bending and lifting and reaching, reaching, reaching – ah! – until the pallet was gently placed in the exact spot I’d indicated. And then that long arm folded back again, and settled gently in its cradle, “fingers” tucked under like a contented cat’s; the straps went arcing beautifully through the air again, and I thought, “My god, this show was worth the delivery charge and more and I hope I get to see it again.”

Artist's Touch; Deb Marshall photo

And I have. Each time I ordered more heavy stuff, I asked the guys down at the store to please, please deliver it on a day I’m home, so I can watch again. And each time I’m gob-smacked by the elegant, delicate piece of performance art I get to watch. Mike is, without question, an artist. Wow. 

 Oh yeah: I’ve moved hundreds of pavers, bricks, bags of pebbles, and bags of cedar this summer. Take that, pernicious grass!

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For the blog, 16 September 2018