The sticky business of stupid old people
Mother Nature leaps from winter to spring with abandon. Yesterday my car was stuck in the frozen tundra forcing me to depend upon friends with monster trucks to get me to town. Today, I must hurry to clear frostbitten weeds and thorny rubble before the snakes and the ticks wake up.
My husband didn’t do much outdoor work the last few years of his life. He blamed it on the broken tractor but took no steps to find the mechanical cure. He kept the trees and shrubs near the house trimmed, but the rest of the landscape turned to the brink of wilderness. Including his piles of sticks.
Oh, his piles of sticks. All the trimmings from the trees and shrubs that he meant to chip into mulch—except the chipper had to be hooked to the tractor, and the tractor was broken. Each pile grew to be five feet high, with tall grass and briar solidifying its shape. Then a new pile would appear.
Whenever I expressed an interest in removing the piles, my darling assured me the task was on his mental list. He’d take care of it. This was said with emphasis, to ensure that I did not mess with his stick piles.
Then, in retaliation, I started a pile of my own. I trimmed some thorny bushes and made an unsightly stack of the leavings, right next to the garden gate. This pile bothered him. But— I couldn’t chip these trimmings: The tractor was broken!
Well, my husband passed on suddenly—bequeathing, to me, his piles of potential mulch and a broken tractor. And I have been heard to whisper under my breath, “…stupid old man…”
A year later, I can’t stand it any longer. I’ve been clearing the overgrown land with the tools I have: a battery-operated junior weed-trimmer, and a lawnmower. And a lot of old-lady muscle. (I do have a brush hog, but it has to be hooked to a tractor—and the tractor is broken.)
While working with my mini-weed eater and lawnmower, sorely deficient tools for land clearing by today’s standards, I am in awe of early Ozarkers who had no internal combustion engines or battery-operated tools to aid in clearing fields and building cabins. If they could manage, surely I can.
When my ground is clear enough for walking, I start in on the stick piles—with lopping shears and weed-eater junior. I create an organic dump—a place that is out of my line of vision at all times—where I can leave organic matter to disintegrate without plugging up my path, my driveway, or my view. I load a few sticks at a time into the wheelbarrow and cart them to my new dumping spot. Then return for another load. Again and again and again and again. (“…stupid old man…”) I keep hoping the neighbors aren’t paying attention. Surely they will think I’ve lost my mind.
My entire property is on a hill. I finish the stick piles at the bottom of the hill first, and then begin dismantling piles at the top of the hill. I bounce the wheelbarrow downhill to “the dump.” Then I must haul the empty wheelbarrow back up the steep slope. (“…Stupid Old Man! Stupid Old Man!) And after a dozen trips or so, the uphill mess—in my front yard— is reduced to broken sticks a mere six inches deep. I can live with that.
But then there is that pile by the garden gate. Stupid old woman.