Monday, August 15, 2011

By Rognvald's Mattock!


Anyone over the age of four will tell you that you can't use grass in a salad. And since I am reminded daily that we're currently growing a couple of under-four-year-olds, I thought it an opportune time to reclaim a bit more of the lawn before those few extra sets of eyes join the wife, watching suspiciously whenever I disappear into the yard with a mattock. In any case, I'm going to be leaving at least some lawn, mostly just to cover ourselves in case said under-four-year-olds won't eat anything else green.

I was lucky enough to have both company and experience in the yard with me yesterday - a good mate of mine who has more experience with a mattock than Thor had with a hammer back when the Norsemen started to worship him. I'm sure the Vikings would have given this guy some cool name like Rognvald, and shouted it loud when they did their team gardening. We're talking about a man that regularly removes large expanses of lawn in forty degree heat, if there's anything more bad-ass than that.

Aside from the usual bribery in the form of ice cream, chocolate or ironing board slavery, approval for this project is won by the acceptance of shape and form as marked out by a garden hose. The wife looked reasonably happy with the proposal, and in my book, a yes is a yes, even if it is said with folded arms and an unconvinced tone. With two mattocks smiting the lawn, a lasting and irreversible impression is quickly made.

I've designed my garden to be a lot of things - but if there's one thing that it is definitely not, its conducive-to-wheelbarrow. But unless you're teetering on the edge of death or permanent injury by falling wheelbarrow, I say you're not really gardening. And that's the story of how new topsoil came into my world.


Then in a final attempt to ensure at least one of us would need to build a lasting relationship with a physiotherapist, Rognvald and I began moving large chunks of bush rock I'd acquired from some random's front yard. I assure you though it was totally legit - through a service I can't speak highly enough about (Freecycle). After arranging them suitably in place, the dropping sun was subtly telling me the same thing my lower back was shouting directly into the pain centres of my brain: Its time to throw back a few of Bundaberg's finest.

And with the setting sun, mattocks by the door, and dirt strewn across the back room, so closes the opening chapter in a new epic.

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