Our daily Life is different now. It can’t help but be.
Certain sounds are missing. Quiet times feel somehow quieter, simply knowing that the stillness won’t be broken by a familiar grmph or woof from a rumpled little black dog.
Two leashes hang by the door, not three.
The relationship between Scout and Smudge is changing. The younger dog no longer is the tormentor of her elder. For the last couple of days, almost as if she’s been given a formal assignment, our happy Heeler tends to watch over the more frail Scout. Smudge also has stepped into the role of sentinel, regularly assuming a perch on the back of the couch, gazing out the window.
This is what packs do. We’re down a man, and so we adapt. We overcome. Forward.
The Mountain didn’t get much rain overnight, but what did fall dampened the ground nicely. More is coming, they say, tonight and through the weekend. I determined that this, then, today, would be my best chance to sow grass seed on the lower level.
As long as I was going that way, I hauled burnables to the barrel and did a quick fire. I also tossed all four bales of straw down over the bank from where they’d served as a winter windbreak next to the camper.
The rest of what I needed for seeding was pretty basic — leaf rake, spreader and, of course, seed. Eyeballing the area, I chose to divide the work into four sections, first raking, then seeding, then scattering straw.
It took almost three hours to complete. The task wasn’t difficult and I didn’t apply any sort of precision to it. I was reminded, however, that physical labor is a lot more enjoyable during the winter months — with bright sunshine and temps hovering around 70°F this morning, plus me wearing long sleeves, the job had me taking frequent breaks.
I didn’t water after I sowed. Maybe I should’ve, but I didn’t. I was banking on rain tonight. And I figured if it didn’t come, I’d be out there with the hose early tomorrow morning.
A word about the straw. Those bales sat outside since late October, absorbing rain and snow and, naturally, never drying out completely. When I cut the twine and broke off flakes to scatter, it was clear that they’d begun to break down (rot) in the center. The smell (which Country folk know and appreciate) told me that my mulch would add some bonus nitrogen to the plot.
I suppose it could be too much, with the risk of burning seed and seedlings, but I’m optimistic.
I’m satisfied with how the job went. It’s been over 50 years since the last time I tried to grow grass on this much bare ground, going back to working with one of my high-school classmates and his father, a respected landscaper. Lessons learned then came back to me today.
If I took anything from the experience a half-century ago, it was that every patch of dirt is different, every bag of seed is different, and Nature (weather) gets a vote. Time will tell.
After we finished dinner this evening, I stepped outside to admire again what I’d accomplished. It occurred to me that it’d be a damned shame to have put in all that work, only to have it fail because I didn’t take the time to water it today.
So I strung together a few hoses, slapped a cheap nozzle on the business end and gave the whole plot a good soaking — twice. I feel better about it now, rain or no rain.
Take care of yourselves, Patriots. Stay calm. Stay sharp. Stay free.
#WiseUp #LibertyOrDeath #Ungovernable
#LetsGoBrandon #FJB