Manure Madness

I have begun the dance. And, believe me, if I sent in an audition tape to the judges from "Dancing with the Stars," they would have a difficult time giving me high marks for my footwork, posture, finesse or style.

The footwork involves slow, steady forward movement, placing one foot in front of the other. I lean into the wind or whatever is coming my way, with my arms behind me, hands holding on to a cart handle. As for finesse and style, just picture the average middle-aged babe----not quite portly but definitely not skin and bones.

The costume: well, yesterday for most of the day, I wore my boot-cut jeans rolled up twice for the high-water look and, more importantly for the high-water practicality. The boots, in this case, are LL Bean barn boots, often covered with crusted manure.

My red barn coat---ya know the LL Bean model with corduroy collar the politicians don so they can look like "real people" in campaigns within the heartland; well, that coat kept me warm yesterday as 35-40-mph winds whipped up my hair into that "wind-blown" look.

At least a dozen times, when it wasn't snowing, hailing or raining, I performed "the manure-moving cha-cha-cha" between the barn and two or three of our beds. Oh, those were flower beds and garden beds, just in case you thought I was trying to add a sensual touch to my routine.

Almost every time I launched into the manure-moving cha-cha-cha from the pile of 3-year-old decadent horse apples and shavings west of the barn, I'd look over there in the muddy pen at Lefty and wonder why in the world I've not yet trained him to pull things, like 250-pound loads of wet manure in a barn cart.

What's with this horse-power thing anyway? Oh well, at least he has contributed significantly to the product I'm tranferring to the garden beds.

I also thought about our orange Kubota tractor, sitting there in the the dryness of the storage shed, with its hydraulic loader, enjoying all the comforts and the life of leisure while I was dancing up (in) a storm outside, lugging that cumbersome cart across the driveway to the beds where the manure will hopefully help grow some world-class veggies so the multitude of deer around these digs can steal the garden goodies during their nightly visits.

I know they'll be hungry. After all, they've already cleaned off my tulips.

There is something wrong with this picture. At least, that thought has occurred to me several times during this week while functioning as my own beast of burden while the true beasts and the burden-sharing rigs look back at me and grin.

My sister Laurie even said to me earlier this week, "Marianne, you have that tractor with that loader."

To which I've replied, "I know, but I also have the world's softest, most sensitive ground, and that tractor with its loader will obliterate that sensitive lawn so fast, and then I'll get to wait another year before the sea of ruts ever clears up and looks decent again.

And, after your tulips have been eaten for the year 2010, you kinda want to have a few nice things in the yard, like grass.

So I do it the old-fashioned way, scooping one shovelful at a time from the generous pile of well-aged poop and when I trudge forward to my destination, I scoop one shovelful at a time once more, throwing it on the beds. Then, I do it all over again.

I've got this dance down pat, I'll tell you. Now that I've started filling my newly constructed front-yard planters, I'm figuring that each will require about 20 trips to and from the manure pile. That means 20 times 250 pounds of wet dirt added to the 40-pound cart will equal a little over five tons of pulling performed by me and my middle-aged arms and legs.

Maybe by the time all dirt has been moved, one cart-load at a time, I shall have enhanced my style and my finesse. For now, I look for silver linings to drive me onward. There will be gold in those garden beds. My muscles will be well-defined and ready for more hard work. And, of course, the deer will be very happy with this year's quality produce.

And, maybe, just maybe, Bill and I can enjoy some of the bounty, at least from whatever the deer leave for us.

So, for at least another day, I'll just resume my manure madness, dancing away in front of my cart, not giving a hoot what anyone thinks of the style, finesse or footwork, and resolving that from now on all this transfer stuff is going to be done in the fall when the ground is hard and the tractor needs some exercise.