Lately, something strange has been happening in my writing life. The Garden of Weeden is outperforming The Examined Life. Apparently, readers prefer stories involving me chasing squirrels, guineas, rogue rabbits, and my dignity around raised beds rather than my carefully constructed attempts to connect obscure song lyrics to emotional growth.
Noted. The people have spoken. They crave fertilizer, feathers, and self-deprecation. Still, I’ve begun to wonder: can one become jealous of oneself? I don’t know if I’m more jealous or outraged that the woodland mafia is getting more enjoyment out of my garden than the missus and I are.
We are now fully into the enforcement phase of the growing season. String beans are being decapitated on sight. Not eaten—decapitated. There’s a difference, and it feels personal. Like someone breaking into your house, rearranging the furniture, and leaving without stealing anything just to prove they can.
Sunflowers didn’t stand a chance. First, they were planted with optimism. Then they were upgraded—two glamorous pots, roughly 18 inches tall, each hosting three proud heads like a small botanical crown ceremony. Gone in three days.
At this point, I no longer believe we are gardening. I believe we are hosting a seasonal buffet for a very organized underground civilization. Tomatoes fare no better. Anything that turns red is promptly sampled—just one bite—then dropped on the ground like a rejected audition. Not consumed. Curated.
Even my thoughts have become agricultural countermeasures. I briefly considered scattering my haircut clippings across the soil as some kind of pheromonal deterrent or symbolic warning. I have not ruled it out. I am, however, running out of ideas that don’t sound like I’ve lost a quiet argument with nature.
We have sunk to a new low, force-feeding the grandbabies pie so we can generate pie pans to scare off the winged thieves.
Meanwhile, Amazon continues to profit from my descent into protective infrastructure theory. Hoops. Nets. Mesh. Each new delivery carries the same quiet promise: this will be the thing that finally makes you smarter than a squirrel. It won’t be.
Across state lines and a time zone, my co-author, the other brother Darrel, reports a parallel universe. Strawberries becoming jam. Jars being filled. Cherries on deck. A gentle arc from soil to success.
I, meanwhile, am still negotiating terms with a green bean. Yet, I persist. Because somewhere under all this comedy of losses, there is still the irrational belief that something will grow, survive, and make it to the plate without being declared public property by the local wildlife syndicate.
So I ask, not as a man seeking abundance, but as a man seeking a single uncontested bite: Is there a method—any method—that guarantees even one green bean makes it to adulthood? At this point, I’m not trying to win the harvest. I’m just trying to prove I can grow something faster than it can be rated, reviewed, and consumed by squirrels with better attendance than I have.
And if I fail again this year, I think I may have to accept the truth: I don’t have a garden. I have a subscription service. Nature is not the customer, it’s the reviewer.
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