He warned me when we met, about his addiction. And I noticed the signs. Dozens of house plants that look to have been around for years, a stack of seed catalogs by the bedside, jars of home canned goods in the cupboard. He lived in the town of Garden for God’s sake.

When I finally arrived in the Eden of Garden. I got a look at the garden. Back then, it was just 18 beds, and it seemed excessive, much more than two people needed. But hey, it worked out okay. He likes to grow food. I like to eat food. It was still a lot of fucking lettuce.

So, I started selling at the farmers market. I tried to move some of the excess produce. That only enabled him, gave him more excuses to grow more, add more garden space. More dirt was brought in, our compost bins overflowed. “As long as it doesn’t make you grumpy,” I said when I caught him chopping away at trees to clear more garden space.

Gardening on this scale takes a shitload of time, not to mention energy. That leaves little time or energy for fun, romance or anything else not involving weeding, cultivating, moving dirt or general fussing in the garden.

When we first got together, we’d spend happy mornings working in the garden together, then take long bike rides down the peninsula, stopping at each beach for a swim and a beverage. Weekend kayak adventures to secluded sand beaches were not uncommon. But no more. The addiction has taken over.

He needs his dirt fix.

They say addiction is genetic. I know at least a few of his relatives are excessive gardeners. They just can’t get enough.

I recently left him alone for three weeks and came back to another new garden, at least a quarter-acre large. My stomach did flips. What is going on with all that dirt? Do we really need more squash?

Anyone up for a bike ride?