By a guy who thought putting a few flowers in the ground would be cheaper than owning a race car

There comes a point in every man’s life when he stands in his backyard, stares at a patch of dirt, and thinks, “You know what this needs? A little gardening.”

This, of course, is the same level of catastrophic decision-making that led people to invade Russia in winter.

I live in a modest little house in Richmond, Virginia. Nothing grand. Nothing that requires a full-time groundskeeper named Willie. Yet somehow, every spring, I find myself wandering into the garden centers at Lowe’s, Home Depot, and Walmart like a gambler walking into a casino.

You enter thinking you’ll spend twenty dollars.

You leave needing a second mortgage.

The first thing that hits you is the soil.

Soil.

Dirt.

The very substance covering most of the planet.

Apparently, someone has cornered the global dirt market because a bag of it now costs roughly the same as a small European nation.

I stood there recently staring at a stack of soil bags and wondering if they contained actual gold.

Perhaps diamonds.

Maybe the ashes of ancient kings.

No.

It was dirt.

The same stuff I was standing on.

Yet somehow the dirt in the bag costs money while the dirt in my yard is apparently unacceptable. My yard dirt is viewed by gardening experts with the same level of disgust normally reserved for gas station sushi.

“No, no,” they say.

“You need premium garden soil.”

Premium dirt.

Imagine explaining that to your grandfather.

Then come the tomato plants.

When did tomatoes become luxury items?

I remember when people practically gave tomato plants away. Now they’re displayed like rare works of art.

Tiny little things no taller than a toothbrush.

Seven dollars.

For that price, I expect the tomato plant to make breakfast and help with my taxes.

And flowers?

Good heavens.

A single flowering plant now sits in a decorative pot with the confidence of a Ferrari in a showroom.

You pick it up.

The price tag says over Twenty dollars.

Twenty!

It’s a plant.

It’s literally planning to die the moment I get distracted for three days.

But that’s only the beginning.

Because before you can plant your newly acquired gold-plated petunia, you must first dig a hole.

This sounds simple.

It is not.

What actually happens is you push the spade into the ground and immediately discover that every tree within a three-mile radius has secretly extended its roots into your flower bed.

Roots.

Roots everywhere.

Massive wooden tentacles lying beneath the soil like some underground kraken.

You stab.

You pry.

You sweat.

You negotiate.

You threaten.

Soon you’re engaged in a conflict that resembles trench warfare.

At one point I was certain the tree was fighting back.

I could almost hear it.

“Touch this root and see what happens.”

Three hours later you’ve managed to excavate a hole approximately the size of a coffee mug.

And now your back arrives to provide commentary.

My back no longer supports gardening.

It merely observes it.

The moment I lift a bag of soil, my spine sends a strongly worded letter of complaint.

When I pick up a flower pot, something clicks.

When I use a spade, something crunches.

And when I merely look at a heavy planter, my lower back starts drafting its resignation.

By the end of the afternoon, I move around the yard like a Victorian explorer suffering from fourteen different tropical diseases.

Meanwhile, the grass is conducting its own rebellion.

You water it.

Nothing.

You fertilize it.

Nothing.

You encourage it.

Nothing.

Entire sections simply refuse to participate.

The grass just sits there looking lazy.

Yet somehow the weeds are thriving like they’ve discovered insider trading.

The weeds are six feet tall, holding meetings, and discussing expansion plans.

Then there are the bricks.

Bricks used to be cheap.

They are, after all, baked rectangles.

Today they cost so much that I suspect each one contains a hidden Rolex.

You start a small garden border and halfway through realize you’ve accidentally invested the equivalent of a college education.

And don’t get me started on hats and gloves.

Garden gloves now come with enough technology to land aircraft.

Moisture-wicking.

Breathable.

Ergonomic.

Reinforced.

At this point I’m surprised they don’t have Bluetooth.

The hats aren’t much better.

You can spend eighty dollars protecting your head while standing next to flowers that cost another eighty dollars.

Somewhere along the line, gardening became less like a hobby and more like joining an exclusive country club.

Which brings me neatly to the garden centers.

Have you seen them lately?

The garden sections at Lowe’s, Home Depot, and Walmart now feel less like places that sell plants and more like premium golf resorts.

Everyone is wandering around with giant carts full of decorative shrubs, imported mulch, stone pavers, solar lights, and enough hanging baskets to landscape Buckingham Palace.

People are spending thousands.

Thousands.

To voluntarily create more chores for themselves.

And after you’ve planted everything…

After you’ve hauled the soil.

Fought the roots.

Destroyed your back.

Financed the flowers.

Purchased the bricks.

And watered everything for weeks…

The wildlife arrives.

First comes a badger.

I don’t know where he came from.

I don’t know where he went.

But he appeared one morning looking like a tiny furry construction inspector.

He walked around the garden, examined everything I’d done, and left.

I can only assume he filed a negative report.

Then came the raccoon.

The raccoon did not inspect.

The raccoon modified.

He rearranged.

Redesigned.

Renovated.

He looked at my carefully planted flowers and decided they would be better upside down.

By dawn, the garden looked as though it had hosted a rock concert.

And there I stood.

Holding a spade.

Covered in dirt.

Back aching.

Wallet empty.

Arguing with wildlife.

Wondering why I hadn’t simply bought a nice picture of a garden and hung it on the wall.

Still.

The flowers bloom.

The tomatoes appear.

The grass eventually decides to contribute something.

And for a brief moment, sitting on the patio in the Richmond evening sun, it all looks rather lovely.

Then I notice another bag of soil costs over five dollars.

And the rage returns.

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My book, Hidden Alignment is still available on Amazon in paperback and Kindle for those interested. Link and QR code below.

Link: https://a.co/d/0enjFI6f