It’s All Gone to Pot in the Garden

Things have been going to pot at our place lately.

This isn’t necessarily a bad development. In fact, some would argue that it’s a welcome outcome. My wife, for one, would likely say, “It’s about time!”

The pots that I’m referring to are the kind that have to do with plants. Specifically, the type of plants whose main features are flowers that my wife has objectively and scientifically classified as “pretty.” 

It’s the time of year once again when I often have potting soil beneath my fingernails. We’re talking about enough dirt in the nail bed to grow a crop of radishes. Many gardeners are referred to as having a green thumb, but both of mine are brown.

Selecting the flowers to pot and place beside our house is a complicated process that involves multiple visits to multiple greenhouses. The decisions that are being made, flower-wise, seem to be as weighty as a ruling from the Supreme Court.

Even though we live on a farm and our farm has lots of dirt – in fact, it’s made up almost entirely of dirt – we always have to buy bags of potting soil for our flowerpots. We should be given a discount for purchasing the stuff by the metric ton.

My wife and I were recently searching for a particular item at a megastore’s garden center. In a massive blow to my male ego, I finally had to stop and ask for directions.

“I’m sorry,” replied the harried clerk in response to my polite inquiry, “Nobody named Pete is scheduled to work here today.”

“I’m not looking for a guy,” I replied. “I’m looking for a thing called peat. As in peat moss.”

While I picked up the bags of what was, in reality, overpriced dirt, my wife said, “Remember when our kids were little, and they called it ‘potty soil?’”

“They weren’t far off. A lot of this stuff is earthworm poop. And some of it’s made from cow manure, so they were technically correct.”

This elicited a blizzard of reminiscing.

“Remember how we used to be young and hip and would go barhopping on weekends?” I remarked to my wife. “Now we’re gray-haired and have hip problems and go greenhouse hopping on weekends.”

Our flowers frequently attract visitors, some of them more welcome than others. My wife is deathly afraid of bees, which is a good thing because she’s allergic to bee stings. One August afternoon she summoned me to the window with a note of rising panic in her voice.

“Look at that!” she exclaimed, pointing at a blossom-laden flowerpot that sat outdoors near our living room window, “That has to be the biggest, meanest bumblebee I’ve ever seen!”

Closer observation proved that the humungous bee was actually a hummingbird. My wife’s attitude toward this particular visitor changed instantly.

“It’s such a colorful little bird!” she cooed. A worrisome thought then occurred to her. “What about Sparkles?” she asked.

Her concerns were valid. Sparkles, our cat, is a proven killer. She would have liked nothing better than to have our tiny avian guest for lunch.

My wife opened the door and called for Sparkles, who sauntered to the house in her unhurried, cat-like manner. Sparkles was invited into the house and plied with kitty treats. She was thus rewarded for not committing murder. I don’t like the message that the cat may have taken away from this.

Flowers are by no means the only items that we buy during our greenhouse hopping jaunts. I hate to admit this, but I’ve become addicted to the flavor of fresh, homegrown vegetables that came straight from our garden. For some reason, the harder I work on our garden the better its produce tastes. A scientific inquiry should be conducted to quantify this curious phenomenon.

I walk into a greenhouse and see all those cute little plants begging to come home with me and my imagination runs wild. I envision the yummy things that will adorn our table this summer, tasty tomatoes, succulent sweet corn, crunchy cucumbers. Very much like my wife, I let my daydreams get out over the skis of reality.

I momentarily forget about all of the watering and hoeing and sweating in the hot summer sun. I forget about being bitten by so many mosquitoes that I need to carry a Red Cross blood donor card.

But even the weediest garden can be improved by the judicious ministrations of sharpened steel. The oxen are slow, but the earth is patient.        

Gardens are very much like friendships. Both must be tended regularly in order for them to thrive. And both yield pleasures that cannot be quantified.     

Jerry’s book, “Dear County Agent Guy” can be found at www.workman.com and in bookstores nationwide.