  Im so my fathers child. Today, my mom and I went out to Home Depot for pony packs of pansies, a few bags of large chunk cedar bark, and to look at some bistro tables for the charming little corner spot in the yard. Success on all accounts but the table set-up, something that can happen anytime. So all this stuff had to be planted and worked. Oh, and mom brought over the four rose bushes Id picked out at the specialty nursery a few weeks ago. So we went to work. Each of us planted two rose bushes, a job that requires a hole of at least a foot deep for each.
And in case you forgot, this condo is built beside a granite rock quarry. Anyone out there want to guess at what they do to fill in the lots to make them flat and uniform before building? Ah, yes. The largest rock I hit was the size of my head. No where will your shovel go down easily past an inch. CLINK. Oh, my back and joints. Multiply that by 24 small holes for the fleurs. And another purple vine plant that I had my eye on.
I dug and I dug, fatal blows to the cement foundation/dirt backyard until it gave way enough to get my beauts in the ground. With every other strike, I let out laboured grunts, one out of five articulated enough to be distinguished as foul language. Alas, it was too dark to take decent pics of the work. So I opted instead for some general-area pics. Im physically trashed, but it was worth getting the job done in one session. Why stop until youre finished? What satisfaction is there in seeing a half-completed job? Ill never understand people not like me and Dad. 
