At any rate, during a 90-degree weekend, hubby dug off the top layer of grass, and my daughter-in-law and I worked all the soil off to regain some of it for planting. My grandson walked around with a zippered bag and collected any grubs we shook loose, christening himself "Grub Control." Because of the grub problem, we wanted to treat the area, and then had to wait at least a week to plant anything we would consume. So, on this past (90-degree) weekend, I got up at 8:00am and started turning the soil, again, by hand. By noon, everything was planted.
This is the "before." (Well, actually, the grass around it is the true "before.")
(Also, I want to assure you that, yes, we do mow our yard, but with all the shade we have, the grass grows like gangbusters anyway. It was mowed right after the garden was planted.)
My helpers. Ironic, because the only tool I really used was my old, old, shovel, whom I've since nicknamed "Bully," which is not pictured. We bought it at a garage sale last summer before we'd even moved into our house. The elderly woman we bought it from said it was her uncle's. We bought the garden weasel (left) from the same couple. The women didn't want her husband to sell it. (Notice the patch of dead grass above the hoe? That's likely caused by the grubs.)
Gladiola bulbs. (No, I actually wasn't tipsy when I planted these.)
Blisters from "Bully." I was very proud of them.