Where are all the kids whose parents spent their entire childhood screaming, “Quit digging holes! You’re gonna dig to China!”
Because I’m hiring.
Apparently every one of those little dirt goblins grew up, got office jobs, and forgot how to operate a shovel.
Before anyone asks why I don’t just do it myself…
I’d love to.
Unfortunately, my right knee has spent more time under the knife than your holiday honey ham after Uncle Larry showed up with his brand-new electric carving knife back in 2002.
I spent four years in a wheelchair. Then another year in physical therapy just to earn the privilege of walking normally again. These days, making it through Lowe’s under my own power feels like a victory. Wrestling a 60-pound Harbor Freight Predator auger that wants to send me back to OSU Sports Medicine isn’t exactly part of my recovery plan.
Which brings us to…
An Obituary for the Six Brave Men Defeated by a 10-Inch-Wide, 30-Inch-Deep Hole
Not 11 inches.
Not 29 inches.
10 inches wide. 30 inches deep. No more. No less.
You’d think finding someone to do that would be easy.
You’d be wrong.
Contestant number one, Dave.
We weren’t exactly off to a strong start.
We’re standing in Lowe’s buying lumber for the project when the police walk in, call his name, and escort him out in handcuffs before we even made it to checkout.
I’m standing there holding pressure-treated 4x4s thinking…
“Well… this fence project has officially become a documentary.”
Contestant number two…
Tiny.
Who, by law, was approximately the size of a refrigerator.
He dug a few respectable holes, looked at the auger, looked at me, and apparently decided making pizzas was the safer career choice.
Contestant number three…
Justin.
Justin had me fooled.
He gave me the “I’m just trying to get back on my feet” speech. Because my heart is apparently bigger than my common sense, I prepaid him $160 for the holes.
He got paid.
I got ghosted.
Somewhere out there Justin is telling people about the easiest $160 he ever made.
I’ve decided to call it a charitable donation to the Poor Decision Foundation.
Contestant number four showed up.
Worked.
Ghosted.
Came back.
Worked again.
Ghosted again.
At this point I wasn’t hiring a handyman.
I was subscribing to a recurring disappointment.
Contestant number five is my current carpenter, One Lung Bernie.
Great guy.
Works hard.
Built my side steps from scratch.
But even Bernie admitted digging these holes is a young man’s game.
So he brought contestant number six.
A 65-year-old buddy.
Two hours later I had to say the most ridiculous sentence I’ve ever spoken:
“I hired you to dig fence post holes. If digging fence post holes is the one thing you can’t do… this probably isn’t going to work.”
I’ve worked for Disney.
I’ve built AI systems.
I’ve helped with projects on military installations.
Yet somehow the greatest challenge of my adult life has become finding someone capable of repeatedly digging a hole that is…
10 inches wide.
30 inches deep.
No more. No less.
I’ve got 14 holes left before all three pastures are finally finished.
When they’re done, I’m installing memorial plaques around the property so future generations remember those who fell during The Great Fence War of 2026.
🏅 “FREE DAVE.” On the deck. A reminder that the project got interesting before we even left Lowe’s.
🏅 “THANKS, WILLIAM.” On the tree stump. Mission accomplished… then he disappeared into legend.
🏅 “IOU $160 – JUSTIN.” On the dog fence. A permanent reminder that optimism can be expensive.
🏅 “ONE LUNG BERNIE WAS HERE.” On the side steps. Credit where it’s due. Bernie earned his plaque.
🏅 “PIZZA PIZZA… PEACE OUT. – TINY.” On the goat pen fence post. A reminder that every man eventually finds his true calling.
🏅 “2 HOURS. FIRED.” On the last gate post. Because sometimes the interview doesn’t end the way you planned.
Maybe in six years I’ll walk around the farm laughing at these plaques.
Right now…
I’d settle for fourteen more 10-inch-wide, 30-inch-deep holes.
Also note that I will set the posts. Only holes are needed.
Photo for reference.
I have a few other people who said they would step up but this post is a reminder to my future self about this unholy situation.
Dispatches like this one are being collected in What The F(arm): Sixty Dispatches from an Unqualified Ohio Farmer — $40, half of which turns straight into hay for the horses, the mini donkey, and the baby goats. The presses roll when 100 people pre-order.