A Rock is a Hard Place

It was an ambitious game plan for a lovely spring morning. 20 plants. 20 holes. 4 hours.  That's 12 minutes per plant/hole, but only half the plants were in 12" pots, the others were in smaller 6" pots, and there were two of us. The odds were certainly better than those for Animal Kingdom, yesterday's Derby winner.  But it was Mother's Day, and there were other items on the agenda for the afternoon, so we had to get this finished by 1PM. It was either dig like crazy and get them in the ground fast, or hope they make it through another week crammed into the pots they were already clearly outgrowing. After all, these two new beds had been pre- prepared and should be relatively easy to plant in. 

Right.

We laid out the big stuff -- the yellow Potentilla and the burgundy-leafed Penstemon -- in the new lower bed. 

Then flanked the pear tree with Plumbago (that name continues to crack me up -- are there also plants named ague and gout, I wonder?) on the left and the Dwarf Goatsbeard on the right.



And because it was 9AM and we were fresh -- and delusional -- we tackled the lower bed, which would need the bigger holes, first.  We dug in tandem -- on separate holes until or unless I hit a rock I couldn't dislodge, and then we'd switch.  That system seemed to work and lulled us into a false sense of accomplishment.  Sure there were some setbacks -- such as discovering that the corner placement was only 6 inches above the solid rock outcropping curving under the bed, so we had to adjust the formation.  And sure, there were a couple of wheelbarrows' worth of small stones, but nothing that really discouraged us.  It took a little over an hour to get the first five plants tucked in.

Potentilla ready to be tucked in



Then we tackled the Penstemon.  The first hole went fine. The second hole revealed several two-person stones -- the kind I could move but couldn't lift out alone.  The good news on those is that when you do extract them, there's an instant hole.  The bad news, is that they like to roam in packs and are usually are accompanied by some even heftier friends.  And so it was for us.

Big Momma (it is Mother's Day, remember) announced herself with a teeth-rattling clang as the shovel jammed against her still-submerged surface.  At first, it was not at all clear exactly how big she was -- all we could see was her hip, coyly beckoning just above the soil.



Rock Tease

After exposing enough of her to reveal the impressive size of her exterior dimensions, Mr. Mulch attacked with enthusiasm -- claiming he'd yet to lose a battle with a rock and he wasn't going to begin now.  I was dubious.  This was clearly the kind of object that makes you wish you had paid attention in that "Physics for Poets" course you took in college where they covered things like mass, energy, fulcrums and lifting cars with your teeth.  I delicately suggested that we simply pick a different spot for the Penstemon.  He would have none of it. 

The clock was ticking, and I figured that we'd be better off dividing and conquering.  So I left him to tilt at his stone windmill and turned my attention to the 10 plants waiting patiently next to the pear tree.  Happily, that's where I found my own Mother's Day gift: soil that was, in fact, soft and yielding.  I was actually able to turn it with a simple hand trowel -- no shovel or pickaxe needed. Gardening nirvana!  An hour and a half of assembly-line digging, composting, fertilizing, bedding, tamping and watering, and all 10 plants were happily ensconced. 



Plumbago and Dwarf Goatsbeard planted and watered



I looked up from my planting fog to discover Mr. Mulch still working on Big Momma, whose entire upper torso was now fully exposed.  Boy, could she have used some Spanx.  He managed to get his crowbar under her nether side, and yelled for reinforcements.  (Hollering "shovel" doesn't quite have the same panache as hearing a surgeon yell "scalpel," but they do share a certain urgency.)  I grabbed the shovel, jammed it under one corner, and after huffing and puffing for only slightly longer and possibly harder than I did when pushing during the birth of my first child, together we somehow generated enough leverage to finally drag the bitch out of bed.



Big -- and I do mean big -- Momma



I realize there's no sense of scale here, but I assure you, this momma was easily 2 1/2 feet long and over a foot wide, and must have weighed in at close to 300 pounds.  We managed to roll her into a wheelbarrow without rupturing anything important (on either of us, that is), and deposited her in the pile we'll use as stepping stones the next time we make a path. 

It was now 12:30PM.  We returned to the scene of the eviction, thinking her departure would have left a hole large enough for two plants.  And that with any luck, we'd have time to dig two more quick holes and get everything in. 

Right.

As the shovel made its first descent into the pit, we heard that familiar clang. Another one.  Even bigger. 

Even Mr. Mulch has his limits. 

We decided that Bigger Momma could sleep in for one more day, and instead of turning her out, we cracked open a couple of cold beers and toasted to the resilience of all Mommas everywhere.