Homesteading Middles - Painting with Mulch

My grandfather used to tell a story of a professor he had in graduate school. This man loved painting his fence. His excitement over slopping paint on wood confounded my grandfather - who considered this individual a paragon of intellect and academic achievement. So one day, my grandfather asked him why.

The professor’s response was along these lines. “There are very few projects in life where you know exactly what is needed to succeed. Not only that, but at any point in the project, I know exactly how far I have gone and have much further I need to go. That is why I like painting my fence.”

I feel that way about mulching.

It is so incredibly satisfying. Spreading dark healthy mulch on bare soil makes me swoon. Who knew?

My first forays with mulch was the Dogwood Allee in Winkie’s garden (aka the Polly Hill Arboretum). I would trudge to the back mulch pile with the handheld pull cart, load it up, pull it back to the dogwoods, weed, spread it around the trees, rinse repeat. As a teenager, I found the hourly wage and my tan arms the most exciting part of that endeavor.

Now, mulching has become therapeutic. When my father was dying, I mulched. It was a concrete useful thing I could do while my world collapsed around me. It fed the land while exhausting me physically.

Mulch makes the green goodies pop with color and vibrancy. I am the opposite of a formal gardener, but it is a joy to behold a neatly mulched landscape - the orderliness, the dark nutrition of the wood vs fecund foliage.

Recently, we mulched the greenhouse. I moved the rosemary plant to tuck mulch beneath and the whole space smelled like rosemary as I shoveled, raked and spread. I knelt down to gently swaddle new seedlings and felt the warmth of the decomposing mulch on my knees. Weeds were pulled or smothered.

From afar the ground looks like a fresh coat of mahogany anchoring the building. The feeling in my chest of a job well done - all from painting with mulch.