Front yard beautification sounds so innocent, doesn’t it? So hopeful and Pinterest-y. A vision of artfully arranged succulents, a charming gravel path, and maybe a tasteful birdbath where small desert creatures can sip daintily and ponder their life choices.But, in reality, not so much.
Reality showed up at 7 a.m. in the form of a dump truck named “The Widowmaker.” Rumbling up the driveway like a caffeinated buffalo, it offloaded ten tons of river rock onto what was, moments before, a perfectly empty spot near the garage. If you’ve never heard ten tons of rock hitting the ground before breakfast, it sounds exactly like optimism being crushed beneath the wheels of ambition.
Just minutes before, HHH (Hubba-Hubba-Hubbie or Hero-Hauler-Human) was in the kitchen, cheerfully flipping pancakes, eggs, and bacon like the super cook he is. The smell was glorious, and the mood relaxed. The coffee was hot. Birds chirped. Somewhere in the distance, our neighbor’s chicken screeched as she laid her morning egg. And then, everything changed.
After that truck dropped its load, we were in full-on high desert plains emergency mode. HHH glanced up from his spatula with the haunted look of a man who just realized he’s going to spend the next week doing things his back hasn’t done for years.
After gobbling down our breakfast, we stood at the edge of the rock pile, sipping coffee and contemplating our life choices. It looked innocent enough at first. Pretty, even. Dusty round stones catching the morning light were whispering “just a few wheelbarrow loads…” like sirens in a landscaping-themed tragedy.
Just thirty minutes after breakfast, the work gloves were on. Forget metaphors—WE had become the mules. Only instead of carrying provisions across the desert, we were hauling loads of river rock in a very wobbly wheelbarrow and one small galvanized bucket, down the driveway, while trying not to sprain a hip or start an argument over rock distribution strategy.
You learn a lot about yourself when moving river rock:
- You learn that shovels are both best friend and mortal enemy.
- You learn that “just one more load” is a lie told by the optimistic side of your brain.
- You learn that your neighbors will absolutely come out to “supervise” while holding iced drinks.
- You learn that if you hear one more rock clink, you may commit a minor felony.
But you also learn how good it feels to see progress. Slowly, inch by inch, the front yard has taken shape. That once-barren stretch of hard-packed desert dirt? Now a shimmering riverbed of effort and sore muscles. That formerly nasty slope? Now a landscaped wonderland that says, “We showed up to win. After a few hours, we conquered.”
Plenty of chilled water can make anything a little better. Let me tell you, it tastes even more amazing at 10 a.m. when your shirt’s soaked with sweat and your hands look like you just auditioned for a gravel-themed action film.
So, beautification continues. We’re a little sunburned, sore, and occasionally swearing at inanimate objects—but the front yard is becoming something special. Something wild, yet managed. Natural, yet clearly influenced by two stubborn seniors with shovels and a dream.
And a LOT of river rock.
Pictures tomorrow.