Moving Mulch

Your Humble Scribe, his Pile o' Mulch, and his Trusty Wheelbarrow
OAFS Photo

For many of the years we've lived in Little Rhody, The Missus Herself has had gardens. Lots and lots of gardens. Somewhere there is an extent photo of her the first spring we were here. She's standing by herself in a yard full of absolutely nothing. Within a couple of years she has terraformed our yard into something quite pleasant.

Me? I pick things up and put them down.

Mulch is one of those things, though that wasn't always the case. Back when I had a paying gig I would always try to find an excuse to be elsewhere during "mulch weekends." I've written about that before ...

Now last year, my first year of complete retirement, we did not mulch. So I didn't need an excuse to dodge my term behind the wheelbarrow. This year?

I had no excuse. But as I'm retired and have no need to join the rat race Monday through Friday, I can mulch to The Missus Herself's heart's content and then take my repose as I will. During the week when all you working stiffs are laboring for "the man." (Or "the woman" as was my lot in life at times. Didn't bother me, two of my all time favorite bosses were ladies, to include the one I had before retiring from the last job. She was pretty much the only reason I worked until I was 71 years of age. I enjoyed the work I was doing but she made it painless, she screened me from having to deal with folks outside the lab. Which I really appreciated. Now I work for a woman 24/7 and you really should pity The Missus Herself, I'm a terrible employee.)

So it was a mulching I did go.

Your Humble Scribe works the shovel
OAFS Photo

Now imagine The Missus Herself in the background of that last photo yelling "Put yer back into it laddie!"

I wonder if there is such a thing as a sea shanty for mulching? Ya know, "Roll the Old Wheelbarrow" or some such thing ...

Back at ya next week with new fiction and probably more tales of mulch and high adventure.

Or something ...