I name my tiller
Yesterday, I got out my gas-powered mini tiller to till in the compost on the blueberry bed. It took half an hour to get the damned thing started. There was much flipping of switches, setting of chokes, and yanking on starter cords, followed by taking out of spark plugs to unflood the engine. (I bought a second spark plug, and I just switch the plugs instead of painstakingly drying and replacing the plug, it saves time.) All of which was followed by a steady refrain of cussing. At long last I got the thing started. It promptly died again. It was at this point I christened my tiller. Its new name is #@!%&*. It seemed to respond well to its new name, since it finally started running, after sputtering and dying half a dozen times. Then #@!%&* functioned beautifully, until it got choked by clots of sod, or tangled up in quack grass rhizomes. At which point I had to take the tiller wheels off, and remove all the sodding sod.

But at long last the bed was properly tilled, a thing of frothy beauty (if you're a gardener that is!) The soil is rich and loamy, with peat moss, boughten compost, and more carefully screened compost from my compost heap, and made acid by ammonium sulfate judiciously weighed and painstakingly applied. My four blueberry bushes (Brigitta, 2 Elizabeths, and an Olympia) were planted, and tucked in beneath a thick blanket of pine needles. Next year we'll harvest blueberries!

So here's to #@!%&*. Let's hope it's more cooperative next time! Especially since I have another four blueberries to plant in a second bed!