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By Susan McCorkindale Times Newspapers Contributing Writer
I have a confession to make. I
am not a green gardener. No,
if any color can be associated with my pitiful horticultural pursuits, it would have to be burned-out brown or witheredand-grizzled gray.
It doesn't matter if I prepare the soil And fertilize. And follow the nursery’s instructions down to the last detail. I can kill all manner of vegetables and bruits faster than moviegoers can flee a Pauly Shore film.
It has reached the paint where I think the plants andshrubs mock me when they see me approach. "Here comes black-thumbed Thusie!” they whisper. Yes, they lisp. It makes it even more painful.
You should have seen me plant the tomatoes, lettuce. Cucumbers and carrots my husband insisted I start from seeds. My back ached. The wind whipped my hair. And the organic farming militant to whom Fm married stood there smiling and saying, Look at you! You’re getting the gardening bug!
Just between us, he’s getting the gardening bug. I put the biggest one I found beneath his pillow.
lb be honest, it’s a miracle any of the seeds sprouted. On top of all my aforementioned mishaps, I once murdered an entire packet of sea monkeys and a Chia Pet, so I figured my prospects for growing produce were limited. And then I couldn’t believe Mr. Let’s-Live-ofFthe-Land expected me to transplant the seedlings myself. What? Ruin my non-existent nails? Get dirty? If my husband thinks my feeble attempt at a victory garden means Fm giving up my supermarket bonus cards, you can bet he’ll be a vegetable before I ever grow one.
Now just to be dear, my bet
74.9%