Posthole Digging

Because our Pandemic Puppy, now enormous, likes to dig holes, and our Pandemic Hens scratch up everything, we now need a Pandemic Garden Fence to keep them from destroying my herb and veggie beds in front of the house. So this weekend I worked on digging eight postholes and placing eight fence posts required for my small square fence with two gates. 

Digging postholes is an excellent way to assess your upper body strength, or lack thereof in my case. My arms were burning in minutes. Jeremy marked the 24 inch mark on the handles of the posthole diggers to make sure I made the holes deep enough, and I realized almost immediately how challenging this project was going to be. In my first posthole I made it through the loose dark topsoil, about 8 inches down, before hitting rocks and more rocks, and roots, and more roots. I was soon surrounded by various tools: the posthole diggers, loppers for cutting the roots, a trowel for little rocks, an extraordinarily heavy rock bar for big rocks, and another small shovel. 

A fence post and the reason for the 
fenceposts. 

It was occasionally frustrating but not wholly unpleasant work. Reaching deeper and deeper and lifting higher and higher, I went slow and steady, my shoulders, wrists, and back all unused to this kind of work. The first hole was next to my rosemary, and as I reached into the hole to pull out the rocks, I got to smell its resinous scent. Another hole I dug was next to some refreshing lemon balm, another next to William's favorite, sage, and another in some grass which I could smell had wild onions mixed in as I reached into the hole up to my shoulder to pick out rocks, face next to the ground. All the herbal smells mixed with the smell of soil, making the task of hole-digging unexpectedly therapeutic. 

I amused myself throughout this project pretending to be archeologist. Jeremy and I have been watching a fun show on YouTube called Time Team. It's a British show that's been going on for many years. A team of archeologists have three days to uncover the secrets of a particular site, and they travel all around the UK to do these three-day stints of digging. Picture a motley crew of men and women peering into a trench, deciphering different shades of soil color and getting excited about evidence of, say, an Iron Age site. They'll dig up a sherd of pottery and say, "Yes, this is definitely 12th century Norman pottery, probably a cooking vessel." From a tiny little bit of pot. It's amazing, and quite interesting, actually. But it's interesting in a quiet way, which means it's great to listen to to help you fall asleep if you're having trouble stopping your thoughts from running races in your brain. You don't even have to watch, you can just listen to their pleasant voices talking about Medieval castle remnants in a farmer's cornfield. So while I dug my postholes I'd pull out a rock and pretend to be finding exciting evidence of Roman occupation. 

I dug four holes on Sunday, then two more on Monday, and Jeremy finished the last two holes for me. I thought with the holes dug the hard work was done, but it turns out tamping the soil back in around the cedar fence posts was another upper-body workout. I used the extremely heavy rock bar to make sure it was all packed in around the posts, and my arms were shaking by the end. 

I now have eight cedar posts placed and ready for the fence. I've rearranged the beds to accommodate the new layout, and I can't wait until we get time to put up the wire fencing and gates so I can go plant shopping and get planting. We'll be starting some seeds and planting some seeds directly, but some things I'm happy to let the pros start. I failed miserably getting parsley started last year. I don't know why it was so stubborn. I see a greenhouse visit in my future, and the thought is disproportionately exciting. There is a report of possible frost this week, but after that we should be clear to plant without worry.