Wednesday, 2 September 2009


We have a garden. With lawn that needs mowing and all those damn plants that continue growing. After all the damn shrubbery had overgrown us and the regular trash bin wasn't enough for all those clippings, it took a few years but a week ago, we got a compost bin.
Now, a week after, it seems to be the favourite toy of the family. We started sorting out teabags and apple cores to go to the compost because, well, it's home ecology!, folks.
On the occasion of having a place to put organic waste to, mom decided that it's the right time to redo the front garden. The redwood tree, planted there as a sapling so that it could grow a bit nicely, intended to be replanted to the hotel, was somewhat forgotten there and grew to a huge tree - I suppose it could be still replanted but large trees need two years of planning (basically, you dig a trench around it to cut the roots, leave it for a year and then dig it out and move to desired place, using heavy machinery, lots of workforce and... anyways, it's a tough job) and nobody would bother anyway. The spruce was designated to be this year's Christmas tree because mom says it's fugly (rather true) and mainly, we removed all the turf that remained from once very kept lawn - now the trees there take all the nutrients and there's no space for lawn anyway.

Redesigning the garden is one thing, done comfortably over a coffee but actually doing the digging and planting and moving stuff around... ouch. Moreover, the place has bad soil, there were some ten centimetres of decent one spread over all that rubbish that remained at the construction site so in the hole for that damn piece of shrubbery, I found several rods of iron, around three bricks, the largest bit being like half of one.
But, it looks pretty.
There was a gardening fair this weekend so off we went. It's sort of tradition, going there, eating all those hot dogs and fastfoody things and bringing, well, plants.
Silly little flowers. They are planted by the magnolia and I'm curious to see how much they grow up.

Yeah, and taught the family that mouldy bread may go to the compost too. You see, for some reason, there's always the last slice of bread that goes bad. Something existential behind it, I suspect.

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