Early spring is upon us, and I’m preparing for the annual sprucing-up of our flowerbeds. It’s a mystery why I haven’t been investigated by one of Baytown’s many garden clubs, and eternally banned from landscaping attempts. Exasperation, amaryllis envy, and far too many errors in my trials, have proven me an herbicidal maniac. Maybe I’m asking too much in wanting nice flowerbeds before I’m pushing up daisies.
Jeff and his aching back are the brawn behind the operation, and I, of course, am the brains. I must tread lightly here as I don’t want him to resign from his esteemed position. He’s been around long enough to know that my mind tediously creates a beautiful image, while he has the much-easier task of reading my ruminations, and doing my horticultural bidding. I’ve kept him on the job for so long because he’s good at it, and frankly, I can afford what he charges.
Long walks this time of year, under the guise of exercise, are actually reconnaissance missions where I meticulously choose my victims. No lawn is safe from my spying eyes. Those who have nothing better to do or maybe they’re just good at the flower-gardening thing, already have pansies blooming, and color abounding.
Adding color is my major goal, as my beds are a bland wash of too much green. By copying a little from here, and a little from there, I too can appear to be a gardening genius – for a few weeks, anyway. Some lucky souls (it is luck, and I’ll accept no other explanation) have figured out the right combination of plants for having year-round, practically-effortless color. I’m hopeful that one day I’ll stumble upon what will be my flowering magnum opus.
Home improvement chains love me, as my inability to keep things alive for the long haul keeps profit margins favorable. Over 13 years, I’ve tried just about every variety of plant offered, and no doubt spent a small fortune. “You can do it. We can help”, surely refers to emptying my wallet. I’m starting to realize I can’t do it, and no one can help.
Genetically speaking, I should be able to hold two green thumbs way up, as my lineage boasts of some rather impressive gardeners. Somehow, I learned to enjoy the results far more than the process, and to this day cannot engage in plant-related conversation without my eyes glazing over.
I have a small library of plant and gardening books. Even there I managed to contribute to the death of a tree by consuming the paper they’re printed on. As interested as I am in the end result, I can’t bring myself to care how to get there.
All issues aside, my spring is not complete without this ritual. I love to stand in front of my freshly done beds each year, close my eyes, breathe in the scent of fresh mulch, and know that budding new promises are poking through. Then I open my eyes, see the leggy, fried mess, and realize being green with envy is about as good as my thumbs are going to get.
© 2008 Natalie Whatley