Saturday dawned, but I slept in. The weekend had arrived. I could handle life’s demands at my leisure.
Until I recalled that today was the day to create the new, long-promised flower bed. Ugh.
Never mind. By mid-morning I trudged out, armed with my blunt shovel, and started digging up rocks–lots of them–as I created a trench outline of the bed.
At well over 100 degrees, it was one of the steamiest days of the year. Within the hour, I hoisted the unmanly white flag of surrender. I was off to Home Depot to rent a gas-powered dirt tiller.
I narrowed down which tiller I needed: gargantuan, giant, or medium. Intimidated, I asked for something still smaller. I had to settle for the scary, medium-sized beast, the smallest that they had. Getting the thing into my car was no picnic. We dismantled the handle bar and gently hoisted it inside, being careful to place the sharp tines on a thick book of maps to keep the leather upholstery from being pierced.
Once home, I constructed a ramp of two 2 by 4s, upon which I gingerly placed the sole wheel, intending to guide the thing backwards down the ramp. The boards immediately parted, leaving me to precariously balance the heavy and awkward contraption on a four-inch wide plank at a 45 degree downward angle. The disconnected handle protruded toward my chest like the horns of an angry bull. The sharply-honed tines, intended to turn earth into shreds, hovered menacingly near my loins. One unfortunate lurch and I knew I could be singing soprano.
A lifetime can seem to pass in the course of one day. In the case of a groin gore, I was glad to already have family firmly in place. In the case that I should collapse and meet Jesus in the sweltering heat, I was pretty sure that heaven was climate-controlled. Besides, we don’t have enough put away for retirement, so I would permanently escape that spreadsheet diorama that wallpapers my office.
“Seven hours and 32 minutes,” came the report when eventually I returned the tiller to the dude at Home Depot. I was filthy from digging dirt, and I wanted my heroic efforts to be noted by everyone at the macho Home Depot store–wow, what a man.
Mr. Home Depot Rental Check-In Man congratulated me. “Good thing you chose the 24-hour instead of the four-hour rental rate!” He crowed, as though he possessed supernatural insight.
Yeah. Just think. If I had gotten my money’s worth and kept the tiller 24-hours, I could have tilled up all three bedrooms and the neighbor’s dog run.
And by then, I would definitely have met up with Jesus.