When it comes to house cleaning, I'm one of these people. Time spent cleaning in an Architectural Digest manner means time away from the studio or anything else more pleasurable, for that matter. However, even I have my limits. When the tiled floor starts looking like a shag rug, when the dust bunnies become woolly mammoths (tusks intact), when I can't differentiate cat from carpeting is when it's long past getting something done. These are not degrees of domestic disarray I aspire to. Honestly, I do appreciate a clean house long before reaching critical mass, but when the rest of the place is in disarray for a variety of reasons I won't discuss here . . . well, I'm not inclined to clean. It's a pointless endeavor when carpeting is being ripped up and furniture being moved. Thing is, this has been going on for quite awhile. Spring Cleaning was waved on as it passed by a month ago.
So. Standing on the brink of Beltane, I'd slingshot long past my limits, as mentioned, and initiated deep cleaning in one room and one room only: the bedroom. It is our sanctuary after a long day and feng shui would dictate how a clean and orderly bedroom is good, y'know, feng shui. Not that I pay all that much attention to those rules, but it's nice to have the place cleared of dust bunnies, cob webs and dog hair in the early stages of cloning more of the same dog. Top that with a little white sage smudging and we're good to go. To bed ~ for hopefully the Standard Eight and perhaps a little REM activity. Refreshing rest is very near in my future, of which I am glad because I'm in sore need of it.
And I do mean sore. After a cat nap on the lounge chairs outside (as Duke circled and gobbled just to make sure we weren't dead), Bennie and I started moving dirt. A couple of years ago, in an effort to have a decent garden, we built raised beds. Extra top soil was included in the order for the yard so that dirt could be put into said raised beds. Sad two-year fact is top soil is not garden soil. My intrepid friend, Kim, advised me to get bags of manure and some of my compost and then mix it into the top soil and then I'd have some fine garden soil. And that is the sort of thing Kim, bless her boots, would do and have great success with it. She's one of those people. I, however, am a lazy gardener. I don't start stuff from seed. If I do, it had better have the ambition to transplant itself into the garden in a timely manner and long before it gets spindly and ridiculous looking. I don't prep soil. If it comes in a bag and sez Miracle-Gro® on it, I'm set. I water the garden with a sprinkler and not a deep-root soaker hose. My growing time is short up here. (Really. It is. I've spent more than enough time trying to explain to landscaper-type people that I don't get enough sun and things start at least two weeks later than down in the Flatlands. I gave up explaining when one said something about daylight being daylight and there's no reason on this green earth why I shouldn't get a decent tomato. And then there are . . . the rocks.) Because it is short, I don't feel like fiddling around with soil. I'd like a tomato before October, thank you.
We managed only one bed, hauling out the top soil and piling it on the compost (it'll go somewhere else in the yard) and then hauling 10 bags into the bed in its place. This was all done while breaking up rooster fights and shooing hens out of the way. Duke put in a lot of miles following me to and fro thinking the bucket was full of grain only to experience some mild disappointment as I dumped top soil out instead. Every time. Every bucket. But then he had nothing better to do all day. The turkey hens, all three of them, have gone broody. They hardly see the light of day sitting on, well, anyone's eggs. Got a duck brooding too. Life is going to get mighty interesting this coming summer.
At least I can go to bed.