A couple of days ago, Denny and I took advantage of the lack of rain and headed outdoors to…dundundun! The BACKYARD.
Yes, very exciting stuff, I know. Please, control yourselves. Your hysterics embarrass me.
Actually, it wasn’t all that exciting, but it was very satisfying to be able to check yet another thing off our list of things to do this summer. What did we check off, you might ask? We demolished the pet cemetery. Um, I guess that needs some explaining. You see, our realtor is a spaz. You might not think that explains it, but it really does. She simply couldn’t refrain from nicknaming everything in sight. For example, the sauna in the garage was the “grow room” (don’t ask) and the overgrown little garden out back was (you guessed it) the “pet cemetery.” Not because there were actual pets buried there (that we know of), but just because it was fenced off, kind of creepy, and not very accessible. Add that up and, in our realtor’s head, you had a pet cemetery.
The sauna was lucky enough to quickly shed its weird nickname, but the pet cemetery, sadly, never did. I’m pretty sure that (many years from now) when we go to sell our house, we’ll be giving potential buyers the tour and pointing out, “Oh! And that’s where the pet cemetery used to be.” (Which will probably result in us living in this house until we die. Would you buy a house that had its own pet cemetery?)
The pet cemetery (spelled with a C, not an S—no Stephen King references, if you please) was pretty much a weed farm surrounded by a rickety fence and trellis. See?
Not only was it practically falling down, but it really served no discernable purpose, other than that of providing habitat for every known species of bug found in the Pacific Northwest. It had to go. Since I was the more excited of the two of us to see it leave, Denny suggested that I have the honor of the initial teardown, which resulted in this:
As you can see, I jumped into my role as destructo-girl with quite the vigor. However, that thing was actually more sturdy than it looked (that, or I’m not quite the brute I think I am) because Denny did have to put down the camera for a minute to come up and help me get it to this:
In no time at all, we were ripping up fenceposts and hauling sections over to our already substantial woodpile (made up of remnants of the sauna and garage shelves).
Then came time for the much-celebrated weed-uprooting. Denny kept telling me to take it easy; that we’d just get out the weed-eater and chainsaw later. But I am…how do I describe it? A madman when it comes to weeding. I get CRAZY. Obsessed. Armed with my shears and some sturdy gardening gloves, I turn into the Michael Myers of gardeners, slaying every weed in sight. And it doesn’t stop there, given the chance, I’ll gladly hack down any shrub or flower that doesn’t appear to be in perfect health or location. “Ashley! That’s a flower!” “I don’t care! It’s in the WRONG PLACE.” Poor flowers. They just don’t stand a chance. Eventually, Denny gets proper control of me once more and I stand back to survey the damage, usually pretty pleased that my ruthlessness has resulted in a scene such as this:
The whole pet cemetery whittled away to a few twigs and leaves. (Those purple flowers were saved only due to Denny’s intervention—aka, tearing the shears out of my hand and sending me away for a timeout). Knowing how I get, Denny pretty much left me to it, although he did pause (in his project of clearing out the woodpile) to snap this shot.
Can you believe the size of that thing? As you can see, I’m a little under 5’3” and the sliding doors are a standard 6’10”, which puts that monster in at…what? 9 feet high?! Holy *>%?! At one point, I think it was a rosebush, but it had since mutated into a pre-historic-looking-photosynthetic behemoth. I repeat: it had to go.
Overall, it was a good day, tater. The pet cemetery is no more (although I predict that the name will linger), I killed approximately 250 pounds worth of offending plant life, and Denny packed his dad’s black trailer to the brim with scrap awood, clearing up a sizeable chunk of our yard and taking us one step closer to a spider-free territory.
PS: Did you notice the wee leaf of secrecy? It’s blocking our street sign. I like it. I think it will be an ongoing tradition here at 21 House. The Wee Leaf of Secrecy. In capitals. Respect the Leaf.
PSx2: See, Amanda? I don’t ALWAYS wear black shirts. ;)