Boomers . . . and How They Got That Way
Boomers . . . and How They Got That Way Epistle 29 – Thumbs of Death
Well, young people, Spring has finally arrived and it’s time for Boomer to troop out to the garden, moil around in the dirt, and commune with nature. First I’ll stop by the garage and inspect my shovels and rakes and claw-shaped things hanging neatly from their hooks on the wall. My favorite implement is the Garden Weasel. I’ve never been able to accomplish anything with it, but the name is cool. After a thorough inventory of my bags of bone meal, fertilizer, mulch and dirt, I am finally ready to plan my annual profusion of blooms and heady bouquets.
What shall it be this year? Dahlias, peonies, roses and gardenias? Or maybe petunias, begonias and nasturtiums? My mind reels at the riot of color I will create in total harmony with Mother Nature. Which is remarkable since the entire garden will be various shades of brown within a week. Some people have green thumbs. I have Thumbs of Death. It matters not what I buy or how many hundreds of dollars I spend. There is not a plant on earth that I cannot kill. Usually, they don’t even make it home from the nursery without hanging their lovely heads in deep despair, delicate petals and lacy leaves of green littering the inside of my car.
I used to blame the car, believing noxious fumes from the engine or death rays from the radio were destroying my beauties. I tried putting them in the trunk, on the back seat, on the front seat, hanging out the window, and dragging along the ground. I’ve tried vans, sedans, trucks and bicycles. I’ve owned the vehicles, rented them and borrowed them, all with equal success. My annual investment in nursery stock was beyond hope before the greenery reached its floral graveyard.
Of course, I still harbor faint hope within my agrarian heart. “It was just commuting shock,” I bravely tell myself, rushing my lovelies out to the garden. Frantically, I dig just the right size hole just the right distance from the neighboring plant, powder the hole liberally with bone meal, delicately place the root ball in just the right position, and carefully pack the dirt around the base in just the right density with just the right drainage. Then, with oh so much love and tenderness, I kiss the tender shoots with a mist of water in just the right quantity to guarantee healthy, harmonious growth under a gentle breeze and just the right amount of sun and shade. In short, no garden could be planted better. I care not for the excruciating backache as I stand back, marveling at the joy of creation. “It’s just transplanting shock,” I tell myself, as one by one, each precious stem surrenders itself to the earth and certain death.
Undaunted, my credit card is warmed up and I am prepared to spend hundreds more this year. Shear lunacy, you think? Before you scoff, it’s wise to remember two inviolable principles of gardening. First, my wife says color coordination is essential in every ensemble, and the shades of brown in my garden perfectly match the dirt. And the Thumbs of Death must be obeyed.
We Will Win
Filed under: Boomers . . . and How They Got That Way
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