Our flower beds probably have a good inch on top of my dumped powder...
The other thing I learned was to label everything. If it can't label itself, I'll make sure it gets a label.
You're loading away happily, and suddenly things go completely to hell in a bucket, all at once. Your chest starts to hurt, and your left arm is killing you. It gets harder and harder to breathe, and a nap seems like a really, really good idea. Right now. In fact, I think I'll lay down right here, right now.
When you get back to the reloading bench, months (if not a year) will have passed, what with surgery and rehab and the fact that there's stairs involved. Stairs will never be as funny as they used to be.
No, Jackson, you won't remember anything. You won't remember what you were trying to accomplish, what powder you were using, where the brass is in the cleaning cycles, which bucket of brass has been inspected, what weapon you were loading for or anything else.
So I started keeping a log of what I'm doing at the bench, step by step, and I started labelling everything. Now I can read the log and the labels and piece together what I was doing and what I was using, whether it was last night or six months ago. (I also learned a hard lesson about legible hand writing, and learned that I need to print neatly, but that's another story.)