Lexington, KY – This is always a difficult time of the year for me, and it’s not because of my sinuses, though the sources of the pollens and other allergens are partly to blame for my troubles.
This is the time of the year when I’m reminded that I’m not a very accomplished gardener, at all. Cursed is probably a more appropriate adjective. Any time I put something in to some soil with the hopes of cultivating some sort of organism, in essence it’s nothing more than a burial service, or an execution. Death by dirt. Flowers, herbs, fruits, vegetables, it doesn’t matter –– whatever it is, its days are numbered once I get my grubby hands on it.
My one house plant is the lone survivor, a finicky philodendron that refuses to flourish or perish. It just seems content sitting next to a window in my bedroom looking sickly. Truth be told, I didn’t even grow this plant; it’s a piece that broke off of a much larger and healthier looking plant when it was being repotted. This one is just suffering from my stewardship.
Of course, ignorance and inexperience come into play here with my crimes against botany. Valuable knowledge about plants and gardening can be gleaned from reference material and the Internet, but the real understanding, I believe, comes from years of practice. In my own yard and pots, I just have difficulty mustering enthusiasm about something that’s going to wither and die without any sort of fruition; I’m not a deviant.
I’ve always been envious of those people who have a way with plants –– flower beds or garden plots. Their relationship and command of the earth, and what comes out of it, is inspirational, and usually beautiful, if not delicious.
