Perils with Pattie: The Great Potting Soil Heist (and Other Adventures in Independent Living)

In my family, the bar for starting a new “tradition” is embarrassingly low. Do something once (especially if it involves me getting my way) and congratulations, it’s now officially on the calendar forever. Last Mother’s Day, number two son, Andrew, came with me to Lowe’s for the annual gardening supply run. Not only did I love the company, but we flew through that store like a well-oiled machine. I pointed, he loaded, and everything I wanted made it into the cart in one glorious sweep. Best of all, I didn’t have to carry a single thing.

A lovely woman shopping by herself spotted Andrew helping me and came right over to sing his praises. Then she went and fetched her husband so he could meet this “excellent son” too. I just stood there beaming. Yes, he really is a good one. (I won’t bore you with the pistol he was as a child—that’s what the white hair is for—but he’s pure comfort in my older years.)

This year I thought I’d be clever and make things even easier on both of us. “Fewer sacks,” I declared, “but bigger ones.” Brilliant, right? We got the job done in good time, Andrew unloaded everything into the garage like the gentleman he is, and as soon as the rain stopped I was itching to get out on the deck and start planting.

That’s when reality tapped me on the shoulder.

I bent down in the garage to grab one of those “convenient” larger sacks of potting soil and suddenly had an epiphany: bigger sacks weigh more. A lot more. My sons are forever telling me, “Mom, just let us know and we’ll come help—don’t try to do it yourself.” Sweet words. But I am not a waiter. I am a doer. So I hoisted that 50-pound bag and started the trek out to the deck.

If you ever watched the old Carol Burnett show and remember Tim Conway’s shuffling old man character, you now have a perfect visual of me. I wasn’t walking so much as scooting, inch by painful inch, doubled over like I had serious gastrointestinal distress. The bag and I moved as one slow, miserable unit. I’m sure the neighbors got quite a show. I can only hope someone was filming it for the neighborhood watch group chat—title it “Elderly Woman vs. Potting Soil: The Final Battle.”

Everything is planted now, and I’ve made a very important note in my gardening journal: stick with the smaller sacks next year. Live and learn, preferably without needing a chiropractor.

I’d love to tell you that all that’s left is to sit back with a glass of iced tea and watch my garden grow into perfection. But any real gardener knows that’s a filthy lie. There will be weeding, watering, fertilizing, pest battles, and the occasional heartbreak when something you babied for weeks suddenly keels over for no reason. All that effort and expense so you can eventually pick a $20 tomato and feel smug about it.

Still… worth every minute. Even the Tim Conway shuffle.

How about you? Got any “labor-saving” ideas that backfired spectacularly this spring? Tell me I’m not the only one turning routine chores into neighborhood entertainment.

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The Sun’s Sneaky Victory: My “Brilliant” Outdoor Freezer Defrost Debacle