Alright, so folks sometimes ask me about these “11 rules of earth” I mutter about. It’s not like I found ’em carved on a stone tablet or anything. Nah, this is just stuff I’ve bumped into, face-first, over the years. Mostly through a whole lot of trial and, well, mostly error.
My Little Patch of “Paradise”
It all sort of crystallized a while back. I got this idea, see? I was gonna get this old piece of land, a bit neglected, you know? And I thought, I’ll make it something. A nice garden, maybe a small workshop. Simple, right? That was my first mistake, thinking anything involving dirt and ambition is simple. That’s rule number one: Plans are just suggestions; earth has its own itinerary.
So, I get started. First thing, the old shed. Looked okay from a distance. A bit of paint, new hinges, good as new. Or so I thought. Turns out, the foundation was basically mud. Rule number two: Gravity is a patient hunter, and it always gets its due. That shed wasn’t just leaning; it was actively surrendering to the planet.
Then came the “great drainage project.” There was this one spot, always soggy. I figured, dig a trench, lay some pipe, problem solved. Hours of digging, sweat pouring. Finally done. Next big rain? Water everywhere but the trench. It found a new low spot, right where I planned to plant my prize tomatoes. Rule number three: Water, much like trouble, will always find the tiniest crack or the path of least resistance. And usually, it’s the path you just “fixed.”
I thought I could outsmart the weeds. I laid down tarps, mulch, you name it. For a week, it looked pristine. Then, those little green shoots started poking through, right at the edges, then through tiny holes I didn’t even see. Rule number four: Nature always bats last. You can fight it for a bit, but it’s got all the time in the world. And Rule number five: What you ignore, or think you’ve beaten, just grows stronger in the shadows.
How I Really Got Schooled
You might be thinking, “Okay, tough break with the garden, man.” But this isn’t just about a few failed petunias. This whole period, it was more than that. I’d sunk a fair bit of cash into this, what little I had. Borrowed some from my brother-in-law, a real decent guy, promised him I’d have it back quick once things got going. I had this grand vision, you see. Maybe sell some organic produce, build custom birdhouses in that (now non-existent) shed. The “easy life,” I told myself.
Rule number six: The “easy path” is usually signposted by a con artist, often yourself. Every time I tried a shortcut, it cost me double. That “quick-set” concrete for fence posts? Cracked in the first frost. The “miracle” soil additive? Grew some truly spectacular fungi and nothing else. Rule number seven: Things will always, always take twice as long and cost three times as much as your most pessimistic estimate. It’s like a law of the universe.
I even had a “buddy,” knew a guy who knew a guy, who was gonna help me clear some brush for cheap. He showed up, did half the job, took the cash for the whole thing, and vanished. Phone dead. Turns out, he did that to a few folks. Rule number eight: Everyone’s got an angle. Not always a bad one, but it’s there. You gotta see it.
There was this one old water pump on the property. Leaked a bit, but it worked. I thought, “I’ll fix that right up, make it more efficient!” Took it apart, cleaned it, put it back together. Never worked again. Just sat there, a monument to my genius. Rule number nine: If it ain’t truly broken, your “fix” might just be the thing that breaks it for good.
I’d sit out there sometimes, looking at the mess, the half-finished projects, the thriving weeds. My wife, bless her, she’d bring me coffee and just pat my shoulder. She never said “I told you so,” but we both knew. I remembered my granddad, who used to work his little farm plot. I always thought he made it look so easy. Now I figure, Rule number ten: The “good old days” probably involved a lot more sweat and swearing than anyone lets on.
In the end, I had to sell that piece of land, at a loss. My brother-in-law, thankfully, was understanding, said to pay him back when I could. It took a while. But that whole experience, it wasn’t a total waste. It taught me humility, for one. And it hammered home these “rules.” The biggest one? Rule number eleven: When it comes down to it, you’re mostly on your own with the consequences of your bright ideas. People can help, they can sympathize, but you’re the one who’s gotta shovel the dirt, or clean up the mess.
So yeah, those are my 11 rules. Not very uplifting, maybe. But they’re real, at least for me. They’re what the earth, and life on it, kinda taught me when I wasn’t paying attention in class.