This is an archived article that was published on sltrib.com in 2015, and information in the article may be outdated. It is provided only for personal research purposes and may not be reprinted.

I looked out the back door yesterday and saw that spring is definitely here. Bees buzzed. Flowers bloomed. After a fitful winter's nap, the earth was finally waking up.

Such was the beauty and promise of the moment that I was instantly seized by a sudden urge to lay myself upon a set of busy railroad tracks.

Spring means work. Spring this year means 10 times the work. A wedding reception has been planned for our backyard in June. It's for my back-up daughter Mindy, otherwise known as "#4."

It was Daughter #3's idea that our backyard be the setting for the big day. My wife confirmed it. It was put on the family calendar. Eventually, almost as an afterthought, it occurred to someone to inform the guy who would be doing the donkey's share of the work.

Yes, the special day is still three months away. But there's at least five years of work out there to get the yard into the sort of shape that estrogen deems suitable for the most romantic day of a young woman's life.

The backyard currently looks like the Second Battle of the Marne. There are shell holes, shattered timbers, scorched earth, abandoned equipment, and even an unburied body or two, if you count things dragged home by dogs.

I've been ordered to restore this devastated land to its original state. Hoping to get off on a technicality, I pointed out that this was in fact a desert, and could therefore be restored to its original state with 10 gallons of Roundup.

That plan was refused. What was called for was an outdoor magical day. There had to be lush grass, trimmed shrubbery, flowers aplenty, swept walkways, well-groomed clouds, birdies, fairies, unicorns, rainbows, etc. I got tired just listening to it.

Projects this large require a considerable plan. And no plan is more considerable than one put together by someone who won't be doing any of the work. With pencil and notepaper, I followed my wife around while she made a list.

It didn't take long to realize that the usual rake, clip, mow and curse would not suffice this year. The backyard must look like the gardens of Camelot, meaning that it cannot be left to the likes of someone who thinks gasoline an effective substitute for fertilizer.

For starters, all signs of my loutish presence had to be removed. Repair holes in the fence. Haul cannons to Sonny's. Hide 200+ bowling balls. Scrape old candy off roof. Remove bent fence post. Bury deer. Fill in holes. Power spray scorch marks.

And that's just under the heading of "Item #1: Robert's stupid stuff." There are eight other items listing things like make grass greener, reset flagstones, remove weeds, pick up rocks, get underwear off tree, wash windows, kill hornet.

I'm not entirely ignorant of the female need to have their wedding day be perfect. I've married off three daughters already. But all of those were inside weddings and receptions, where there were no bugs, weeds, and weather with which to contend. Only crazy relatives.

Outside receptions have all of that plus a host who is barely alive. And I've just been informed that I better be alive. I'm performing the ring ceremony.

Robert Kirby can be reached at rkirby@sltrib.com or facebook.com/stillnotpatbagley. Find his past columns at http://www.sltrib.com/lifestyle/kirby