The mulching of the beds is proceeding in fits and starts. And stops. It's kind of fun to crawl around under the forsythia - a different perspective on life - and it's interesting to ruminate on recent current events while laying newspaper as a weed block under the mulch. BUT. I wish I were making more progress. I've decided cypress mulch, while cheap, is not as attractive as bark, but it's in the backyard, so who cares?
I should have taken before and after pictures of the compost bins, as I emptied one side, then forked the contents of the other into the first. Working through the pile of incipient compost was like uncovering a bit of history: here's the Queen Anne's lace I dug up last week, and under that a thick layer of Canada thistle, and under that... until I reached the cotoneaster. Ugh. That stuff is all brambly, so I will probably have to chop it up and leave it for the trash picker-uppers. Maybe I could trade my tiller for a chipper/shredder. Then I could dispose of the too-big-to-compost-too-small-for-the-fire-bowl stuff AND reduce the amount of mulch I need to buy.
Some of that compost made its way to the front yard, so now all God's greenery has been side dressed. My compost seems particularly potent this year, and it's no wonder: last year I used Miracle Grow potting soil in the Topsy Turvy. The "spent" soil went into the compost bin, but apparently it still packs a wallop.
And that's all she wrote.