Seriously. Ever heard of a guy called King Midas? I am his gardening equivalent. Except instead of gold, everything that I touch turns to dead.
Let me explain:
When I was a young bride, my husband informed me that he wanted a garden. He had grown up with one and spent time each summer canning the fruits of the collective family labor. I, on the other hand, took on the task of killing Mom's Mother's Day plant each year. In short, I have a bad track-record with plants.
I wasn't thrilled with the idea, as gardening with my mom during my teenage years only proved to me that I was allergic to any and all things organic and that I have the Super-Human ability to kill anything that manages to grow under my care. But, young and dumb, though I was and agreed to give a a go. Or two. Or three.
We started with a houseplant that we got on sale at Target with a leftover wedding gift card. His name was Walter. Long story, but every plant deserves a name. Walter was foolproof. I could not kill him. Or so I thought. After some over watering and under watering, I turned the botanical reins over to my sister-in-law, and when we moved, we left him on the doorstep of some green-thumbed friends.
Zoom ahead about 2 years.
While living in Pocatello, Idaho, we lived in an apartment with a window box. We were told that we would be allowed to grow anything that we wanted, short of illegal substances, in our boxes. Being a young Mom, I decided that it was time to teach my two-year-old the value of work. Flowers would be a welcome addition to my drab kitchen and so, in the spring, I did it all right. I bought the little planter things that you get them to seed in, indoors. I watered only according to package directions. I began to see something grow. They were beautiful and more knowledgeable than I. I opened the blinds one morning to give my little sprouts some sun, and a little water. As I turned my back on the plants, they committed suicide. I kid you not. Though they were stable, perched on my extra-wide window sill, they plunged to their deaths on my tiled kitchen floor. Though they did not leave a note, I heard them loud and clear; You should not be doing this.
Come with me again, ahead nearly four years. My yard is equipped with Astro Turf. Long, luxurious Astro Turf, mind you, but still, unkillable Astro Turf. Last summer I managed to kill one of the three "tolerant" bushes planted in our patio planters, and I am scared to death to prune my dwarf lemon tree. Really, just waiting for it to die.
Why, then, did I think that planting more flowers would be a good idea? My logic eludes even me.
Something was growing here...
Then this happened...
Mold. Despite the greenhouse-esque effect of my bathroom with it's large garden tub and brilliant late afternoon sun through the 4 x 4 glass-block window. Apparently it's the wrong kind of "Perfect Storm".
Really, how many plants must die before I am put to a stop?
I hereby throw in my gardening tools, will, and delusions. I guess this is why they invented silks. Someday I intend to have wonderful, beautiful grounds and a landscaper to match. Someone must save them from a fate worse than death.
In the meantime, anyone need some slightly-used planters?