I love the outdoors. I love a garden full of flowers, and fruits and pretty things. I love planning the details, buying the plants, finding just the right accent pieces to tie the area all together. I can make it look gorgeous. I then proceed to kill any living thing within the garden.
I don’t do it on purpose. It’s not some malice I have against strawberries, or grudge against peonies. I’m not displacing anger I feel in other areas of my life against the plants (at least, I sure as hell hope I’m not!). But for whatever reason, if plants are left in my care, they will die. I will either over water or underwater and give too much or not enough sun. I can’t tell you why, because I can care for five plants the exact same way and they will all die, regardless of how religiously I follow the little instruction tab they stuck in the soil.
If it weren’t for my husband, our garden would be forever doomed. But if I am the Grim Reaper of horticulture, he is the Plant Whisperer. He can take just about anything I have almost killed (some even that I think technically were already dead) and make them not only whole again, but twice as big and beautiful as before. Among other things, the universe caused us to come together so I did not have to live in a yard that was not but sand.
In response to I’m All Green Thumbs