I took a couple days off work last week, endeavoring to work my way out of the two-page list of 'to-dos' I had accumulated over the past few months. I never get everything I need to get done finished, and doubtless never will.

I worked on a menagerie of projects, from working over the new garden spot and mowing grass to installing a new mini-blind and a shelf in the bedroom.

I had let my grass get behind everywhere, so I had to fight it for most of the first day, trying to battle my way through a forest of rat tails and dandelions. Taking on tall grass with a push mower is not my idea of fun, but it had to be done lest it got even worse.

The next day, I started off following my schedule closely, checking off one item at a time and moving forward. That gives me a feeling of accomplishment, but not always satisfaction. The list is often full of things I really don't want to do, otherwise, they wouldn't need to be listed — they'd be done.

Therefore, I sometimes veered off the scheduled path. I suppose the word I would most often use for that kind of task is 'piddling.' I don't really know the official meaning of the word piddle (often used as 'piddle around'), but I am sure it can't be found in any dictionary. The word is part of my mountain vocabulary, defined as "doing small tasks, often productive but not immediately necessary, mostly to achieve enjoyment."

One such thing I did was to take apart an old grass cutting blade, sharpen it, paint it and refit it with new hardware. While it now looks like a new one, it still maintains its same place on the wall. It, the hand sickle and shears were made obsolete years ago by the string trimmer. Nonetheless, I opted to fix it anyway, leaving it with a hair-splitting edge and glossy black paint. That was so much fun, I proceeded to put a razor-edge on my hatchet, machete and lawnmower blade. I took the hatchet and machete out to make a couple test swings at the brush along the fence row, but, finding it less than cooperative in the hot sun, I opted against taking it on.

I usually try to find busy work most often during the time just after lunch, while the food is finding its way to the final resting place and the air is sultry and often still. It takes too much out of me to work in the hottest part of the day. I can handle cold much better than heat. In fact, several times last week I thought I might roast alive. While I did cook my skin slightly, I feel confident that, overall, I am still no better than medium rare.

The heat was especially noticeable when I was working on my small garden. The sod clumps, often buried by the tiller, seemed to multiply as I removed them. I can't ever remember having to work any harder over a patch of ground. I bet I will continue to say that every year from here on out. After working about three hours to remove clumps of grass still clinging to the dark brown earth, I then had to dig out a rock I could barely lift halfway through the second pass across the garden. After digging and scratching with my hands and the hoe for about 15 minutes, I set out after the pick axe and it was gone in no time. However, most of my energy was also sapped from the effort. Upon returning to tossing sod, I started wondering what was wrong with buying produce at one of our fine grocery stores or produce markets. When that alien thought hit home, I knew I had to rethink my strategy. Brain beats brawn in the hot sun every time. So I decided to use the wheel plow to make my furrows and then clean each one individually rather than trying to clean the entire thing completely. At the rate I was going, I'd still be out there tossing sod.

After I planted the crops in the rows, I figured I could always go back later and fill the areas in between with paper so the grass and weeds don't take over. I just want to make sure that I have the little plants sprouted from seed first so that I can be sure and not cover any of them with the paper. Why would I have to worry about that? Well, let me tell you one or two lines of wisdom passed on indirectly to me by my great-grandfather, my mother's grandfather. "You can plant more seed in a crooked row than you can in a straight one," he would quip. Even so, he made most of his living selling produce off his wagon in town.

Thus, I take comfort in his crooked rows, especially after my own abuses of the lay-off plow. This year, I did pretty well on the first few rows, until I realized that even a small amount of tilt can make a big difference in the long haul. I made seven complete rows and one half row in the middle, mainly due to the trapezoid shape that I ended up creating in the garden. My tiller work also could have been less than stellar. I am sure it will be quite noticeable once the plants get full height, but I don't really mind. I don't have a garden to impress the neighbors, I grow it for food. If I wanted only beauty, I would plant flowers. In fact, I did just that on one end of the garden — I tried putting sunflowers in my corn. I have heard that they benefit from being together. The sunflower stalks are thicker and stronger than corn, so I suppose they lend support and help break the soil. I like both, so I hope they get along.

Even if my family isn't famous for proficiency with the lay-off plow, my other grandfather, my father's father, was affectionately known as "Spuddy" at the furniture factory where he worked because he could grow such large potatoes. He usually sold his crops at work to help make ends meet — he had six sons to feed. Last year, I barely grew enough to bother digging them. Even so, I find satisfaction in looking over my own little crooked rows of vegetables, with all my toil tempered by a love of planting and watching things grow.

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