It seemed like a good idea at the time: rip out the rotting landscape timbers and replace them with stone.
And why not? Driving through Ireland confirmed that my mother’s people were genetically predisposed to stacking rocks in a straight line — and the Italian side? Fuggetaboutit! Everybody knows they’re handy with rocks, so this was not just building a wall, but in my blood.
There’s something scary about undertaking such a public project. The work site sits right on the corner in full view of the nosy neighbors and passerby who scrutinize each other’s property. These are the same people who sneer at the sorry state of my grass. Maybe doing something this would overshadow the turf problems, “Yes, you can grow grass — but I can build a wall out of rocks, MF!”
The biggest worry? That I would have more rock than I know what to do with. As it turned out, near the end of day two it looked like I might run out of stone — and indeed when it was finally done, there were less than ten rocks remaining, ones that were so large and poorly shaped there was no use for them in the wall. One of them was so big I couldn’t lift it alone.
If you’d like to take them off my hands, it’s $25 for all you can carry.