We have a monster truck.
I have mentioned it before; I mention it again. It is huge, orange (definitely orange; even oxidized orange is still unmistakably orange), dirty, scratched, pocked, dented; in a former life, it worked for the railroad. Its one and only beauty mark is a dragonfly sticker on its butt. Our truck’s popularity as a DIY landscape companion seems to be on the rise in our neighborhood; it practically invites itself along on trips to the dump with friends and neighbors. It is a no-risk companion where dirty work is involved. And it is so dingy and ravaged that new damage blends, slyly inconspicuous, with our monster’s well established character. A friend who’d borrowed our truck for backyard cleanup accidentally drove into it with a tractor; the only tangible evidence of the tragedy was our friend’s dismay. The truck looked just the same to us. As a matter of fact, I kind of wish he’d hit the passenger door; maybe a good smack would fix it.
What does such a truck have to do with a beautiful lifer, a healthy lifestyle, and the pursuit of happiness? I will tell you. Spring, summer, and into this fall, we have hauled gravel, sand, bags of cement, stinky manure, dirt, and especially rocks in it. Big, space defining rocks. We (all of us, from Michaelyn down to Nora and even my brother David–but especially Ezra, who is quite interested in his musculoskeletal development) used the gravel and rocks to form a winding path ending in a bewitching circle, which gravel path transforms my hitherto amorphous, ugly side yard into an enchanting, informal double border as it wends its way through. Redolent of Gertrude Jekyll (and Piet Oudolf)–Grasses, shrubs, roses, catmint, lilacs, and a partridge in a fringe tree. The rocks and gravel make sense of the space—as my friend Steph would say, they “cut a line”. As I placed each rock, it became easier and easier to conceptualize… no, to Believe (I Do Believe In Fairies, I Do, I Do) in the eventual borders surrounding it. Making me so, so happy. Content, in a way that almost nothing else can.
Meanwhile, the sand and cement became concrete edging for the back lawn. Not sterile, homogenous lengths of curbing, but concrete fashioned into random cobbly stone, by my hand (so proud I can do that!). Mixed and hauled by frank. Poured by both of us. Concrete in concert; we bonded over cobble. We also bonded with our neighbors as they poured curbing and planted grass at the same time we did, sometimes using our monstrous truck to haul peat moss or sand. Truck, wheelbarrows, shovels, rakes—even sand and dirt and quick work breaks— all became communal. Very sweet.
And so, four years into our occupancy, we at last have a back lawn, enclosed by borders entirely, an island of grass. And a side garden divided by a gravel paths. All set in a soon-to-be garden setting. Well, next year. Autumn is for real now; pumpkin and tomato vines frosted black and zinnias crisp and brown.
Thank you, monster truck.
