A lovely woman shopping by herself spotted Andrew helping me and came right
over to sing his praises. Then she went and fetched her husband so he could
meet this “excellent son” too. I just stood there beaming. Yes, he really is a
good one. (I won’t bore you with the pistol he was as a child—that’s what the
white hair is for—but he’s pure comfort in my older years.)
This year I thought I’d be clever and make things even easier on both of us.
“Fewer sacks,” I declared, “but bigger ones.” Brilliant, right? We got the job
done in good time, Andrew unloaded everything into the garage like the
gentleman he is, and as soon as the rain stopped I was itching to get out on
the deck and start planting.
That’s when reality tapped me on the shoulder.
I bent down in the garage to grab one of those “convenient” larger sacks of
potting soil and suddenly had an epiphany: bigger sacks weigh more. A lot more.
My sons are forever telling me, “Mom, just let us know and we’ll come
help—don’t try to do it yourself.” Sweet words. But I am not a waiter. I am a
doer. So I hoisted that 50-pound bag and started the trek out to the deck.
If you ever watched the old Carol Burnett show and remember Tim Conway’s
shuffling old man character, you now have a perfect visual of me. I wasn’t
walking so much as scooting, inch by painful inch, doubled over like I had
serious gastrointestinal distress. The bag and I moved as one slow, miserable
unit. I’m sure the neighbors got quite a show. I can only hope someone was
filming it for the neighborhood watch group chat—title it “Elderly Woman vs.
Potting Soil: The Final Battle.”
Everything is planted now, and I’ve made a very important note in my gardening
journal: stick with the smaller sacks next year. Live and learn, preferably
without needing a chiropractor.
I’d love to tell you that all that’s left is to sit back with a glass of iced
tea and watch my garden grow into perfection. But any real gardener knows
that’s a filthy lie. There will be weeding, watering, fertilizing, pest
battles, and the occasional heartbreak when something you babied for weeks
suddenly keels over for no reason. All that effort and expense so you can
eventually pick a $20 tomato and feel smug about it.
Still… worth every minute. Even the Tim Conway shuffle.
How about you? Got any “labor-saving” ideas that backfired spectacularly this
spring? Tell me I’m not the only one turning routine chores into neighborhood
entertainment.
You might also enjoy:
When Spring Cleaning Goes Full Dick Van Dyke
Clean and Presentable…or so I thought.
A Winter-Weathered Miracle Under the Chair
Nothing Is Ever Simple (Featuring a Refrigerator and My — GASP! — Underwear)
Refrigerator Roulette, Round Two
The Sun’s Sneaky Victory: My “Brilliant” Outdoor Freezer Defrost Debacle
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