It rained this morning, steadily. And it rained all last night.
This is a relief after the high fire danger, even though I’m sure we need a whole week of that kind of weather to take the edge off enough that the hot shots can take a deep breath and maybe catch a break.
Besides that high priority result, the rain softened the earth and meant I could dig up more of my garden bed– something I thought I would do the moment I moved in, and hardly have given any time to.
It was a good feeling to dig in “my” own dirt. Of course, it doesn’t belong to me, but the bank thinks it does, and there’s no one to tell me not to plant day lilies and black-eyes susans and peonies and rhubarb wherever I’m inspired to.
But today was only digging, only clearing; levering up shallow slabs of grass and yarrow, shaking the dirt from their roots, aerating and lifting the ground underneath to reveal the rocks (and roll them down the hill)– all while Ennis and his friends played, first LARPing around the yard, then circling the board in a Viking-based spin on Monopoly (all while discussing the best Disney movies, among other things).
The expanded bed looks both quite big and terribly small– but the accomplishment is visible, and hands in the dirt for half the day does good things to the body (even when you accidentally dump dirt down the back of your shorts).
It feels like a good risk, an act of faith to prepare for green growing things, whether they are transplanted this season or the next.