Alright, so I figured I’d share a bit about my recent battle. The plan was simple: dig a few holes for some new shrubs. Sounded easy enough, right? I’ve dug holes before. But this patch of ground, oh boy, it had other ideas.
I grabbed my shovel, feeling pretty optimistic. Sun was out, birds were chirping. First plunge of the shovel… thunk. Hit something solid. Okay, no big deal, probably just one rock. Moved over a few inches. Clang. Another one. And this wasn’t some little pebble either. This was a full-on, shovel-stopping rock.
After about ten minutes of this, I realized this wasn’t just a patch with a few rocks. This was, like, mostly rocks held together with a bit of stubborn clay. My shovel was basically useless. It was like trying to dig through a concrete driveway with a spoon. Frustrating doesn’t even begin to cover it. I was sweating, grunting, and getting nowhere fast.
So, I had to regroup. The shovel went back to the shed, and out came the heavy artillery. I’m talking a pickaxe – one of those real solid ones – and a long, heavy pry bar. This was serious business now. No more Mr. Nice Guy trying to gently persuade the earth. This was war.
The process was brutal. Whack with the pickaxe to loosen things up. Then jam the pry bar in, try to find some leverage. Sometimes a rock would pop out, satisfyingly. Other times, the bar would just slip, or the rock would shift a tiny bit and then settle back in, laughing at me. I swear I could hear them laughing.
- Small, jagged rocks that just got in the way.
- Medium-sized ones that you thought would be easy but were wedged in like crazy.
- And the big ones. The ones that made you question all your life choices leading up to that moment.
I spent a good couple of hours out there. My hands were aching, my back was killing me. There were moments I just wanted to give up, pave the whole yard, and call it a day. You know that feeling? When you’re just staring at a hole that’s barely bigger than when you started, and you’ve got a pile of rocks next to you that looks like you’re building a small mountain.
But, bit by bit, it started to happen. One stubborn rock at a time. You’d get one out, and then maybe the next one was a little easier because there was more room to work. It’s a slow, grinding kind of progress. Nothing glamorous about it. Just sweat and dirt and the occasional muttered curse word.
Eventually, I got the holes dug. They weren’t pretty, more like craters left by tiny meteorites, but they were deep enough. The pile of excavated rocks was, frankly, ridiculous. I could probably build a small wall with them. Maybe I will.
So yeah, that was my adventure in digging in what felt like a rock quarry. It’s done now, thankfully. But let me tell you, next time I’m planning something that involves digging? I’m bringing out the auger. Or maybe just hiring someone else. My back still isn’t thanking me.
