(Auld) Sod, plants, roots, rocks

Dave and his fellow Hibernians were there bright and early Thursday to dig beds to underlay the brick walkway and the permeable pavers -- pierced waffles of concrete that will let some of our rain drain down instead of running off.

The walkway part -- just from the left gate to the centerline, and from the front gate to the porch steps -- was relatively easy going, the plumbers having scraped everything up pretty thoroughly when they put the sewer connector in.

So we turned our attention to our landscape architect, Craig, who came by with his early working drawing.

It was a blackprint, not a blueprint, but the plants gave it plenty of blue, red, yellow, green, silver, orange. . . . I stooped and squinted and turned the plan to help my mental eyes and finally saw the dream in perspective. My real eyes filled up a bit. Beautiful. I even saw where the night jasmine would waft across the porch, and added a day-bloomer on the other corner just for good measure.

Less lovely and far less abstract was what Dave and the boyos -- Declan and Ted -- were encounter- ing in the parking area: They'd uncovered huge roots from our sapodilla stretching exactly where the underlayment needed to go. No one had any idea they were there.

So out came the pick and the pry bar -- and then the Sawzall -- with much wrenching and sweating to get to about eight inches under grade. As they labored mightily, yet with grace, I thought of the generations of sandhogs who had dug so much of the country's structure. Properly directed, these lads could bore straight to the mantle.

And they proved it when, just under the roots, they hit huge chunks of cap rock. More pry bars, picks -- and a sledge, too. They clawed out what they could, and busted up and hauled out the rest.

Late in the day, Deco said his body was telling him he needed a Guinness or two soon for nourishment and encouragement, so he could start the new day refreshed and restored. I wished him Sláinte.