Grandma Lois had this amazing 40-year-old rototiller housing mice in her shed for the past 10 years, which she recently donated to the Cause. I had high hopes for this rototiller -- it's a beast, and if anything short of a tractor could handle the sod and rocks of our garden plot, this was it for sure.

Well. Big Man has mad skillz at fixing stuff, and we thought he had it all jiggered up right swell, with a rope holding some things in place, sure, but still, roaring through the sod she was, when, on the fourth pass through, the camshaft broke in half.

(Probably under the weight of all those commas.)

This was very frustrating to us.

Insult to injury, we spent twelve full hours at the annual farm bureau auction afterward, hoping to get a sweet deal on a tractor. And while we procured some small sundries, engaged in truly rewarding people-watching and got to sit in a lot of big, fun machines, a tractor we did not buy.

This leaves us with a garden with 4 inches of tilled soil, roughly one fourth of what we want.

Also, we have not kept up with the lawn. (Which I really want to use as an excuse to get some goats, stat, but, you know, you didn't hear that from me. They'd probably eat my lilacs anyway. Stupid hypothetical goats.)

Turns out, if you don't mow your lawn, you find tulips, so that's cool.

ANYWAY, we don't know what exactly, we're going to do about the garden. Tiller parts will be hunted for, time will be spent experimenting with a pitchfork, manure will be added. The garden is key (some of my seedlings are getting downright jungle-y upstairs), but this weekend is the Weekend of Pigs. Finally.

(The artichoke cheers in excitement.)