Fresh Gravel for the Garden Paths

"What do you want for your birthday?" asked my mother and dad.

"Three yards of gravel," I replied.

The gravel company truck delivered it to the back gate on Saturday morning. The driver was amazing -- he angled the truck toward the entrance, coming within a couple inches of the fence, and hit the bulls-eye on the tarp. I gleefully handed him a check, and started shoveling right away.

Dad also got me a sweet little garden cart. Originally I didn't think I wanted one, but father know best! It turned out to be the perfect thing for shuttling around loads of gravel.  

That's what three yards of pea gravel looks like. Pretty intimidating.
Time to start moving it, one shovel-full at a time.

I'd been at it for an hour or so when Laura arrived, and the two of us pecked away at it for the rest of the afternoon. Tiring work, but entirely gratifying. (Whenever she has a ton of gravel to move, I'll be there in a jiff!)

Before...

... and after!

Before ...

... and after!

It looks a little deep, doesn't it?
That's because this is the gravel stockpile for Phase Two.

Phase Two: Down the north side of the house to the fence.
There's a lot more work to do.

The World Is Too Much With Us

The Poetry Muse has been on vacation -- it is summer, after all. She suggests a sonnet by Wordsworth instead:

The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon,
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers,
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;

It moves us not. --Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.

— William Wordsworth