We pulled out that hideously overgrown ornamental tree by our front door earlier this week (or technically last week, I guess, but everything’s mushing together like a cheap blended scotch), so we had to replace it with something. Well, K felt we had to replace it with something. I was rather okay with just leaving it, but I was also okay with replacing it — I was just okay with it. Today, I headed out to get the replacement and a few flowers.
The plan was simple: go to Home Depot for the replacement battery for my drill and a few other things, then head over to South Pleasantburg Nursery for the tree.
“Take a picture of what’s there and show the man what was there,” K said. “He’ll help you pick something out that will fill that space.”
L went with me. “Take L — she’ll pick out nice flowers,” K suggested.
Home Depot took much longer than expected. Ridiculously long.
Then we head over to the nursery only to discover it’s closed: order-by-phone only. So it was back to Home Depot.
Their tree selection is not stellar, let me tell you.
We decided on a relatively mature Japanese maple, but there was no price tag, only a bar code. The Home Depot app, hastily installed, couldn’t find the price, so I photographed the bar code and went into buy it. “How much could it cost?” I asked myself.
The answer: $170.
“Um, no, I don’t think we want that tree,” I managed to stammer out. We went back and found a less mature specimen that was only $95.
The question is, why does a tree cost $170? Or $95? Or any given price? I understand Home Depot’s mark up is fairly predictable, but what about their purchase price?
K and I talked about it this evening. Somehow that price must take into account the salaries of the nursery employees, the resources (food, water, electricity) applied to the sapling or necessary for the nursery itself, the taxes and other expenses the nursery pays — all that compounded over the amount of time necessary for the sapling to reach its desired height and divided by the number of saplings that reach that marketable state at the same time.
“Whatever the expenses, it’s a rip-off,” K laughed in conclusion.
Back home, K planted the tree while I embarked on a second project: moving the composter we got for free when friends moved north. It’s current location was much closer to the house, but the barrel had somehow gotten off the gears that turn the whole contraption, and that was simply because it was no longer level, thanks in large part, I think, to the dog’s digging.
