We moved onto the farm in January, months before it seemed reasonable to even think about anything growing from the ground, so we made some garden plans, but maybe not the most precise plans, what with being overwhelmed by boxes and, uh stuff. Dr. Evil’s father has planted various gardens all over the property over the 20-odd years they lived here, and his final iteration was a hoop garden directly in front of the house. The hoop garden is basically a shrunken Quonset hut made of hog fencing arching across a garden plot about ten feet wide. At its peak in the middle, the hoop rises about five feet above the ground. The purpose here is to deer-proof the garden. For those unwise to the ways of whitetail deer, they will eat anything, everything, most especially anything you do not want them to eat. They especially love tender, young shoots. It’s understandable, but infuriating.

We were dubious about working in a garden-cum-mineshaft, but went ahead and planted in the hoop garden. Long story short, Dr. Evil hated it, and we prevailed on her father, with his whizbang tractor, to till us a new plot elsewhere, sans hog fencing. Time-wise, we were coming in just under the wire for some of the stuff we were planting, but surely late was better than stooped.

This time, we decided to employ monofilament as deer-proofing. It seems many folks have had success surrounding their garden plots with several strands of fishing line stretched tight between fence posts. The reasoning is that deer will bump into the monofilament and retreat, having encountered something they can feel but not see.

IT WAS A SMASHING SUCCESS!! For the first couple weeks, that is. This morning, Dr. Evil discovered that a lone deer had entered the plot — without breaking any strands, meaning that it leapt over something it allegedly could not see (something deer are not supposed to do)—and devoured our tomato plants, peas, cucumbers and basically anything it could get its greedy lips on.

Where do we go from here? Kroger, maybe. I dunno.

I’ll start this post out by acknowledging that I am kooked. I am. Thankfully, my kookedness is mostly harmless, and mostly internal, but it’s there. Today’s instance: Labor.

I am pigheaded about not asking for assistance in physical labor, much to the dismay and disappointment of my various crushed vertebrae and herniated this-n-thats. I just can’t stand the idea of being helped, and the accompanying sense of obligation. I will acknowledge that when assistance is forced upon me (you know, by offers I couldn’t refuse), I am usually overcome by the wonder of human kindness, which is a very pleasant feeling. For example, our neighbor in Charleston has over the years been unflinchingly willing to assist in efforts large and small, and I’ve even taken him up on his offers a time or two—you know, when I couldn’t sneakily wrestle the 4,000 pound whozzit out of the back of my truck by myself unnoticed or something. A few weeks ago, I was hauling my “portable” backup generator up our ski slope of a driveway, and said neighbor (I’ll call him Ed, mostly because that’s his actual name, but also because he just seems like an Ed) was standing in front of his house talking with two other men about his age (~65). They noticed me totally not struggling with the elephantine chunk of metal and without hesitation hopped into action. Between the four of us, we were able to easily lift the generator into my truck bed. (Getting it back out? Whole other story for later) Ed introduced me to his friends, and I learned that they were all West Virginia boys who met up at the MEPS in Beckley, on their way to Vietnam back in the day. It turns out that I went to basic training the same place they did (housed in the same shitty WWII era barracks), and we had great fun letting our inner lower enlisteds out bitching about all things polished and painted. My point here is that sometimes letting people help you actually makes you feel good. Weird, innit?

On a related note, Dr. Evil and I have begun using Kroger’s online grocery ordering service for our weekly shopping. It’s convenient, and we end up spending less because we’re not tempted by impulse buys as we wander the aisles of Kroger, dodging retirees, the addled, madmen and the shopping dead. We can go have dinner somewhere prior to our scheduled pick up time and never have to set foot in the grocery store. Great, no? But. I break out into hives when we are waiting for the worker bee to bring our stuff out to the car. They ask that you neither assist nor tip the WB. I’m awful at small talk on a good day, and this interaction just kills me. I feel like I am some sort of Gilded Age asshole having someone do my chores for me. I’m guild, not gild, ya know? Dr. Evil alternately soothes and mocks me as we get through these long 8.7 minutes, and I guess I’ve got it coming. We’re paying a service fee to Kroger, and Kroger is paying the person who’s loading our Cheez-Its for us, so I should be cool with it, and maybe some day I will be.

Over the years, Dr. Evil and I have also discussed employing a cleaning service, nothing live-in or daily or anything, but someone to come in once or twice a month just to keep up with the drudgery of household cleaning. Now, when I say we’ve “discussed” it, what I mean is that Dr. Evil has looked to the heavens and dreamily said something to the effect of, “Boy, I’d like for someone to come once in a while to help with the housework,” and I’ve said something like, “Oh fuck that noise. I’d be working my ass off the day before they arrived so there’d be nothing to do when they got to our house,” and the discussion ends there. Fortunately, it has yet to occur to Dr. Evil that either of these scenarios would work out in her favor. (Hi, honey!)

We have yet to get the Charleston house on the market. I’ve been making weekly trips out there to do some repairs, some cleaning, and some throwing-out-of-crap-that-we-really-ought-to-have-tossed-ages-ago, so we’re slowly getting there. Since April, though, I’ve had to add to that mix cutting the grass. So: two hours to Charleston, two hours cutting grass, two hours returning home. It’s not a productive schedule, friends. I finally broke down and hired someone to take care of the grass. I struggled mightily with it (to quote Dr. Evil: Didja call the grass guy? Didja call the grass guy? Didja call the grass guy? Didja call the grass guy?), but finally gave in and did it. He came on Ed’s (remember Ed?) recommendation, and has been dependable, which is saying something for these parts. I feel weird about having someone else do “my” work, but we are compensating him fairly and not asking that he do actual landscaping, just maintenance. He has a full time job and cuts grass and does other odd jobs on the side; for a certain segment of our society, it’s been a gig economy since long before it was called the gig economy. I sent him a text this morning to confirm how much we owed him for the month, and I started the text by thanking him for keeping up with the grass. He responded with the amount owed, and provided a mailing address for the check (yes, an actual written check!). But what got me was how he began his reply to me: “Thank you for giving me the work.” Shit. This may just change my thinking about asking for help. People spend so much time complaining about their work, the grind, whatever, and here’s this guy thanking me for giving him work. I’ve got some thinking to do.