In thirty minutes, I fill a five-gallon bucket with ruby crabs, stooping and scooping and feeling invigorated for the exercise. They make a pretty layer in the composter.
An hour and two five-gallon pails later, I’m feeling pretty well exercised. I stretch my achy back, but man it feels good to get outdoors and get my quota of fresh air and exercise. Another fragrant layer gets added to the composter.
It’s drizzling, but I trudge on. Ninety minutes later, I’ve filled four five-gallon pails and topped up a composter that could double for a six-person hot tub. I’m damp with sweat and my back’s threatening to pop a disc.
On day four, I wake to the sound of rain pummeling the steel roof. Or are those crabapples? I find myself holding out hope for enough rain to flood the lawn and float the tiny red orbs away.
But no such luck. I stare outside at a new thick mat of wet crabapples. Is birth control for crabapple trees a thing?
I don my rain coat and the gloves that still feel damp from yesterday, and trudge off to face the crabs. It looks like the tree has thrown up on the lawn. Why aren’t the birds eating these things? My back aches at the thought of all that stooping and wine o’clock is hours away.
Hands on hips, I stare down at the pail and the rake, the tools of my torture, and wonder if exercise is overrated.
And slowly an idea dawns.
Much to my amusement, it works!
(I have some exciting news on the writing front as well … but I have to keep it under my hat until next week.)