The path to my compost pile is paved with good intentions. The black bins I pretend are there to digest chicken poop and kitchen scraps are, in fact, half filled with flats of dessicated pansies, dried-up herbs and seriously expensive perennials that perished on my front porch while I dillydallied.
As I lugged straw bales across the yard to my bale-garden test plot last month, I silently resolved to get things done this season. No more leaving projects unfinished or seedlings unplanted.
The bales had been helpfully purchased by my husband and unceremoniously dumped on the lawn hours before he redeployed to his job in a faraway state. I could have waited a month for him to come home and help me get the big experiment going. But delaying even a day would have put in motion the possibility of the bales just being left to rot.
Not this year.
This year I will water overseeded patches of lawn instead of hoping for rain. The amateur stone steps that bug me out back will get professional help. The stacks of seed packs will be planted — and tended — to their full potential. And for a change, the replacement sage and tarragon are going into the kitchen garden as plants, not compost.
