. . . or shall I say in the margins of the garden, because that's where I spent my time, dragging fallen branches into a pile that Ted, our resident brush hauler, takes away whenever I call him. That's luxury: I gather the debris, and he makes it disappear.
He also dispatched a pesky pile of compost that someone (not us!) dumped next to the cow barn way before our time, right at the foot of an old broken-down fence. Ted took the fence down (I saved the posts, which must be over a hundred years old and are made of white oak, we think), used a pickaxe to clear the weeds from the heap , and then spread the pile around and leveled it. Beautiful. A backbreaking chore, and one he accomplished in about two hours. My hero, because I've been meaning to get to this for the past few years, but always never quite do.
B and I are now considering what to do with this sweet new garden. Do we want Ted to erect a new fence that we could plant golden raspberries on? Do we want another dahlia bed? Hmmmm . . .
After Ted left, with a promise to come back soon and cart away another few piles of brush, B and I mowed around the young spruce trees on the hill behind the garage, dug out some Rosa multiflora and wild raspberries, did a little raking and a little more dragging, and then pretty much crawled back inside. We will hurt tomorrow.
Still lots to be done, but looking better.