I broke another shovel yesterday. Around here they have a half life of one month, scoops, spades, hoes, and rakes, all suffer the same fate; premature death by clay soil, heavy gravel and the desire to finish the task at hand.
My field welder and I erected three hundred feet of 2 7/8th inch pipe fence last week. At seventy five dollars an hour, I like to keep him welding constantly, I labor for him. I spent six hours behind a hand grinder on Memorial Day, smoothing welds and steel brushing rusty pipe. The feeling is slowly returning to my finger tips. After the fence was done, we welded up my stack wagon and reinforced the frame on the solar array.
Robin is a painting fool, spreading white latex enamel on everything we weld. I can’t grind fast enough for her, (I really need to teach that girl how to grind.) If the wind ever subsides, I’ll get up on the house to stain the dormers and tighten the screws holding down the metal roof — that is if I don’t have to cut hay first.
All of our vegetable plants are sitting in the sun room getting root bound in their pots. We need to plant that garden soon! I long for an easier chore like . . . cutting, splitting, and stacking five cords of fire wood. If all of this sounds laborious it’s a typical summer at the ranch. What . . . you don’t believe me? Come and see my broken shovel collection. I wish someone would invent a shovel I can’t break.