I kill plants. With very few exceptions, plants that come under my care are doomed to suffer a slow death of thirst and neglect. I love plants and would like nothing more than to live in a house surrounded by tall trees and grass and ferns and flowers and fruits and vegetables and bushes and shrubs and hedges and gardens, but it would seriously have to come with a gardener. I really do mean well, but I just suck at caring for them properly.
Whenever I acquire new plants, I’m terribly excited about them for about two weeks, and then one day I forget to water them, and suddenly it’s 3 weeks later and I remember that I have plants to take care of — make that HAD plants to take care of — and I panic and run outside and find their dried brown husks frozen in a sun-crisped rigormortis, their slow suffering and piteous cries for water and TLC stamped into their little shriveled stalks and leaves.
Thank god for automatic sprinkler systems, otherwise my lawn would probably be a wasteland too.
One thing I am proud of: I try to do everything organically, without nasty synthetic chemicals that can hurt me, the vegetation, animals, the air, and groundwater. I do read up a lot on organic fertilizers and pest control, and I have all the necessary ingredients for the garlic-pepper tea and the Garrett Juice fertilizer and the liquid seaweed-insecticidal soap bug killer. I use the bug killer when I see bugs and I attempt to remember (but usually forget) to fertilize monthly. Also, I have a compost pile (ok, it’s really just a heap by the side of the house where I throw scraps and leaves and junk… but it does seem to be working!)
I did not inherit Mom’s fantastic abilities with all forms of vegetation (but I guess if it was between art and horticulture I’m glad I got her art genes instead). She never admits it but she is amazing at growing things. Come to think of it, the only plants I’ve been able to keep alive for a decent period of time are an orange tree she gave me, a houseplant that she sent me for my birthday one year, and a rosemary bush she grew from the table centerpieces at my wedding.
Despite my limitations, I make annual valiant attempts to grow things in pots on my patio. At about 5 p.m. yesterday I got it into my head that I wanted to try growing tomatoes this year. Last time I tried this, I ended up with one edible Roma tomato that was maybe 1″ across.
Clearly, I have no clue what I’m doing.
So now, in big ugly containers on the back deck, are seedlings. I have two Patio cherry tomato plants, two yellow pear tomato plants, and an heirloom variety called Mr. Stripey that I bought mostly because it was called Mr. Stripey.
In another container are some green, yellow, and red bell peppers.
And I have some herbs that Mom sent me a couple of weeks ago… basil, oregano, marjoram, sage, and thyme.
I guess I’m kind of growing a salsa garden. Now all I need are some onions! (one thing that I have successfully grown before).
And — and I have to take pride in the little things here — I remembered to water them this morning before work! Of course, watering the plants, and taking out the trash, and forgetting my work shoes and having to dash back home to get them so I wouldn’t have to wear tennies all day, made me miss my bus this morning. Argh!
