And, whilst I contemplate this fine (no, no, resisting the urge not gonna no no refuge of the weakminded hell.), hairsplitting distinction (ouch ouch ouch bloody hell, puns? at this hour?), I'll be doing so en route to Home Despot. There, I shall coax lovely gentlemen (because it's always 'men) to cut lengths of wood for me, as the token slightly-hapless female in the builders' section.
A trunkful of dirt and cow poop, and home I go: it's bed-building time.
We live in a former industrial building, which was rehabilitated for people use in the late '70s. Yep, the year that the lead laws went into place. But, there were no garden laws, so our garden is made of landfill. Every year, I pick glass shards and bits of broken brick, even trash out of the ground -the glass fragments are never sharp, their edges somehow dulled by the dirt and stones around it. But still.
For five years, I've layered dirt onto my planting areas, trying to create a root network that would help hold some of the junk down. It's working, too. But I wouldn't eat anything that grew in that soil. Thus, of course, the bed. And I would go on and say something slightly witty and irretrievably thoughtful about growing and boys'n'dirt and maybe even drop a slight hint vis a vis eco-whatnot, or allergies, but hey: Home Depot opens at 8am, so I've gotta go.
Got wood to buy, things to measure and dirt to play with. Should be a morning full of possibilities, as the Eldest would say. Should be a morning of making possibilities happen, I'd reply.
(and he will, too.)