My father was a successful attorney during his lifetime. However, while a student at Jacksonville State University he studied horticulture and his love of plants never left him. He built a huge greenhouse and during the winter carefully cultivated plants of all shapes and sizes that he then transplanted to his garden each summer. I spent many a Saturday trailing behind him, helping pick weeds and gather a bounty of vegetables that would be transformed into next week’s lunchtime masterpieces by our nanny Clara.
My mother, an equally successful attorney, did not share my father’s love of the garden, but was instead drawn to flowering plants. Her flower bed, which was located near the back deck, housed a small apple tree that each spring was blanketed at its base with tulips of every color imaginable. Our front flower bed was always blooming with roses and the bank leading up our driveway was alive with daffodils. Mother also grew wild strawberries that she had transplanted from her own mother’s garden, and wonderful smelling mint that always garnished our sweet tea in the summer, explaining that during her childhood neighbors shared “cuttings” from what they already had on their property for both economic and practical reasons. She carefully demonstrated on more than one occasion how to root a cutting from an already existing plant that could later be given to a friend, or simply planted in a different location. You might say that I developed my love of plants honestly, however, my green thumb is another matter entirely.
I am convinced there is a photo of me posted on every register in both Home Depot and Lowe’s because at this point my money is not welcome. I need only cross that chain link threshold into the area of all things blooming and every clerk on site vanishes. It appears that those who love plants cannot bear to turn them over to a horticulturist of my skill. I will share a few examples to explain how I became blackballed. First there was the “lucky” bamboo my friend Patti gave me, which, she explained, required nothing of me but a place to rest its weary blue and white china pot. My lucky bamboo was dead in two weeks, however, the pot still works well as a paper clip holder. Second, there was the money tree my husband, Captain America, and I thought was charming. In its first weeks, I watched as two, and then three leaves would fall at a time. By the time it gave up the ghost a month later, the leaves were falling much like my money falls into the deep black hole of student loan debt. Perhaps that is why it is called a money tree, but I believe it was more along the lines of foreshadowing regarding my likelihood of success in the small business world.
Third there were multiple peace lilies, which, according to the florist were “practically indestructible.” Allow me to introduce myself: My name is “practically.” After killing off all the living plants in our home, I decided that the problem was I was classically trained as an outdoor gardener, and, as such, turned my efforts to more familiar territory. I bought a potting bench, soil, and hand held shovel and went to work not only potting plants, but planting bulbs and rose bushes. The confederate jasmine was so disgusted with my efforts that one cold February morning it bloomed in an obvious act of suicide. I could never get the hang of the whole rose pruning thing or why at certain times of the year my neighbor- and garden nemeses- piled up little mounds of dirt and pine straw around his roses. Instead of the big explosion of beauty I remembered from childhood my roses were more scraggly vines of thorns, a fact my mother comments on with every visit.
One burgundy rose bush I was convinced was dead, I pulled from the ground in frustration and proceeded to curse and stomp until I realized the neighbors might be watching. I later attempted to grow another plant in its spot which immediately died; but, the rose sprang back to life. I named the rose bush Lazarus and vowed never to touch it again, its appreciation shown with yearly blooming success.
In a show of confidence, my mother left me in charge of a beautiful pink hydrangea she received while in the hospital. I killed it. The moon plant my in-laws brought over should have come with its own toe tag. I have yet to successfully root anything.
Understanding at this point that flowers were not my thing, I moved on to gardening. I planted strawberries, peppers, squash and zucchini in vain. I became convinced that those annoying squirrels in the back yard had, under the cover of darkness, been digging up and stealing my vegetables, then covering their crime by carefully replacing the soil. When I shared this theory with Captain America he just shook his head and mumbled something to himself. At night I leaped from bed every time the motion detector light on our back patio turned on, and crawled back in as Captain America mumbled something about us having the only jalapeno eating squirrels in history. After I attempted tomatoes in the upside down squirrel free planter that extended from a beam on our pergola with equal success I gave up the ghost.
It appears that all I can grow are weeds, and boy do I have a knack for that! Our front yard, which was professionally landscaped by the prior owners, is situated smack dab in the middle of a community of retirees and at the time we purchased it was a showplace. After a few seasons in my care it is alive with every weed imaginable. I would peep around the curtains in my den and watch my neighbors walk by shaking their heads in disgust. Fearing that we might be met one evening by a torch wielding mob I went to the garden center for help. I purchased a gallon of snake oil which after attaching to the hose pipe and spraying liberally over our lawn, was guaranteed to kill ONLY the weeds and leave all other remaining plant life. I sprayed liberally, and watched, every plant in our front yard immediately curl up like slugs on a salt bed. The weeds went unscathed. We felt it best to leave town for a few days to allow the neighbors to calm down. With that, I gave up gardening and moved on to my new hobby: recycling. I remember the look of horror when I dragged home my Sam’s Club Compost Bin. “I’m not going to grow any more plants” I snapped at a relieved Captain America. I read the instructions and placed a note card on the refrigerator to remind my family that our scraps could be put to good use. We could make soil I explained, and give it to my father-in-law, as he actually knows how to grow things. Last week I sent my son, the Boy Wonder, out to churn the compost and he came back saying he did not think we were correctly “growing” our dirt. Certain that he was trying to get a rise out of me, I stomped out and peered into the bin to find five large onions had grown themselves without out my assistance. So there you have it, I finally learned to garden while trying to grow dirt.
