Post Hole Digging: Not For The Faint Of Heart
I'm pretty sure every guy on earth who has any pretensions to toughness will make it seem like digging a few post holes is (to him) no more strenuous than kicking a few clods of dirt out of the way. Unless he agrees to dig a few for you as a favor in which case he will probably let you know how hard it is so that he can get you to massage his poor shoulders later and kick down a few beers. I am tempted to make all kinds feminist sounding jabs at the weakness of manhood...but only because it sounds like fun. The truth is, digging post holes ought to be used as the stress test in cardiology centers because I'm pretty sure that digging post holes is more likely to give you a heart attack than walking on a stupid treadmill. (I should know, I've done both often enough.) When you ask anyone to help you dig a few post holes you should understand that you are asking them to commit to at least two days of pain.
Once you stop minding the burning sensation in your chest, shoulders and biceps, that you experience within the first five minutes, digging post holes can be a therapeutic activity. I find myself meditating on the millions of people who have dug them before me and how we are all connected by a long line of unbroken labor. Somewhere in the ether there are songs that hang like dolorous stars above every workman's head, tapping out the peculiar slow rhythms that metal striking rock-dotted dirt makes and every workman's body begins to move to that same rhythm. Universal. Like the old cotton-picking songs of the south. I wonder if grave diggers have their own rhythms and songs decorating the air they breath?
How hard your job will be, and how much you are putting your heart at risk, is definitely determined by the type of dirt you are trying to cut into and how many months it's been since the last rainfall. I can't say I have experienced the worst kind of soil...wait, yes I can. I once dug post holes in bone dry dirt freshly freed from its cement covering (which Philip and I broke up ourselves using a pick ax which is a whole other story in itself). This dirt was not only bone dry and about as compacted as it could get, it was also full of rocks. I dug these holes on a burning October day in
Today the dirt was solid moist clay. The main challenge with clay isn't cutting into it, it's relieving your digging tool of the clingy clods. This can make a grown man weep. I had to hit the digger sharply on the near-by pebbles every time I unearthed a new batch of clay. (This activity, by the way, is very disruptive of the universal post hole digging rhythm I spoke of.) And it's very important not to lose any toes in your haste to add your new inch of dirt to the growing pile by your feet. I can say from personal experience that it's a very bad idea to plunge the digger into your toes because a tool that's meant to cut through hard dirt doesn't have a problem cutting through a couple of flimsy bones. I'm pretty sure my big toe is still attached, but I haven't taken my shoe off to examine the damage because, frankly, I'm scared to see what I've done to myself.
I managed to dig six post holes in one and a half hours today. Did I mention that the posts are for the chicken run we have to build within the next couple of days because our chicks are too big for their wash-tub basin? Tomorrow I will build my third chicken run door. Call me farm-girl Mathilda. Just as I was finishing up the last post hole the fluffy white clouds that had casually been floating around the bright blue sky turned low and mean. Thunder started to rumble and the air cooled refreshingly. Within seconds of putting my tools away (I know, I'm not famous for putting my tools away, pretty good huh?) the sky let loose some very slanty serious rain. It was lovely. Two things I love: sudden rain, and physical labor. It's been a good Sunday so far. And now we're all off to see a Mac Theatre showing of E.T. to celebrate the alien themed week-end.*