Well . . ummmm, BEE-EYE-GEE DEE-YALL, as it turns out. I hit lotsa rock and my suspicion that our 1929 house sits so high out of the ground because nobody wanted to dig any deeper into the rocky soil is hereby confirmed. I understand the concept of "breaking rocks" so much better tonight. Because in many cases it is literally easier to break them, than to dig them out. And believe me when I tell you that it takes some force to break them. Flat, nasty bastards that are all interlocked and seem to have the will to stay put and discourage any attempts otherwise. I have a little will of my own, though. And a bunch of rock trash talk, apparently.
And even though I can no longer lift my lead arms past about shoulder height and the trench is not complete and my back will be locked up in the morning, I feel a sense of satisfaction about swinging a pick all weekend. Serious hard work, man. We've become so mechanized, but hard-core labor is what built our country and all the great infrastructure we enjoy (think railroads, for e.g.), and there are so many people that still bust ass on that level every day.
The progress is what it is and it will all work out.
Here's this weekend's pictures, then.
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