Damon stopped by yesterday morning, fired up the tractor (only he can start it, using a screwdriver, as the starting button is broken) and moved the remaining pile of topsoil to dump it in small loads down the last forty feet of the future garden.
When he met my eye, he lifted one eyebrow satirically and made shoveling motions with his hands, clearly miming: So, you were going to shovel all this?
I thought of telling him that I’ve been alternately working for hours on my pasture fences and sweating with a pick-axe to pry deep bedding out of the indoor sheep stall, now three-quarters mucked and the manure spread on the back field. But that might have seemed defensive.
Instead I just smiled and nodded, and thanked him for his help.
The list is long and I have to be strategic in the order I tackle things. Animals before flowers. I hope to be able to get to the gardens next week.