Something inside us (leftover from when we were hunters/gatherers) wants to till the earth.

It was a beautiful, mild sunny day in West Michigan. I had the itch to work in the garden. Uncovered the hydrangeas and prepared to give them their first post-winter drink of acid-loving planr fertilizer (no 60s stoner jokes, please) in hopes of encouraging blue blooms this year. Found I was out of fertilizer. Went to Lowe's.

The entire freaking town was there in the garden section. Buying lawn stuff. Buying hanging baskets. Buying roses. Buying annual plants (p.s. it's a little early). Buying mulch. Buying, buying, buying.

Of course I had to stroll the department to start deciding what I want to buy this year. African daisies? Gerberas? Geraniums? New roses to replace the slackers? All of the above?

I have a theory that something in our genetic makeup calls us out to dig in the dirt, even though it's no longer a matter of survival. I know I have a strong pull in that direction. There is nothing like the caretaking that's involved in beautifying one's space. It feeds the soul. Not sure what city-dwellers do with those instincts.

photo: My garden last summer featuring the chateau (it's too cute to be a shed).