I’ve been driving myself like a slave putting raised beds in the garden, because last year’s garden was going very well until the gophers arrived. So, I’ve been building 6′ x 3′ boxes from redwood fencing and hanging gopher-wire baskets beneath them. I’ve gone Caddyshack. It’s not just gophers, but deer, also, which I will drive from the land amidst their mothers’ lamentations. I’ve put in thousands of feet of deer fence, and that job is nearly done. Fuck the fucking deer, ‘tho’ I love them dearly, and hate driving them from their ever-dwindling home ranges. I killed about a zillion worms in the garden violently excavating for the boxes. Hate that, too, but they’ll be back in hordes once the super-kick-ass compost goes in on top of last years super-kick-ass. The super-kick-ass consists of redwood sawdust, local organic compost, and chicken manure. That’s on top of my personal composting over the past few years, wherein I literally sieved-out the forking California adobe clay, added a shite-load of red cedar pine needles for friability, then two years of kitchen waste and grass clippings. The sheer yardage of soil moved by hand is mind-boggling. This soil is pure kick-ass and the garden is going to explode this year.
I knocked myself out yesterday. When the afternoon breeze finally arrived, my sweat-soaked gratitude was the pure exaltation of nature herself. Why do I work like a nineteen-year-old at my age? At precisely 4:58 pm, the gin tonics started flowing as I finished up the eighth of 32 forthcoming boxes. Per my sister-in-law’s instructions, it will be a pleasure to work in that productive garden when I’m done. I may not have the balls of a nineteen-year-old, but with age I have gotten a lot better at listening to people.
Today, I looked at yesterday’s achievements and said, “Wait a sec. Rather than mindlessly driving deeper into Egypt with your tanks, Rommel, how about a milkshake today instead?” I can’t remember the last time I had a milkshake. I took the long way from Rancho Corralitos, through Pleasant Valley, Day Valley, Valencia Valley, a beauty-flecked drive of redwoods and apple orchards through the central coast that sneaks up on to a local coffee shop where the golden-skinned barista goddess makes the “chocolate dream” shake that includes bananas and peanut butter. It was so good I could barely hold my lane on the drive home. Today, I merely managed to throw a little straw around the boxes and water the rapidly germinating seeds, but otherwise just tonked around on the piano and played with the dog. But I did score that milkshake.
Natalie Merchant was on my mind much of the day. This song, for all Dharma Bums:
Her voice has a laid back and luscious register. Hey, Jack, now for the tricky part…
I love the sustained chords and melody, as only she can do it.