Each year, about this time, my thumb starts to believe it's green. It goes through some sort of Spring Fever, trying to convince me that its not only capable, but willing to be a gardening genius. I draw up extensive plans for a ginormous garden filled with a rainbow of vegetables, just waiting to fill our kitchen with fresh goodness. My thumb tries desperately to involve my husband in its quest. Sometimes he is super sweet and goes along with my crazy thumb, just so its feelings won't be hurt. Other times, my thumb is able to convince his thumb that it is also green and needs to be in the garden.
Every year I give into my thumb, bringing in outside help in to create that perfect garden. And every year, I lose steam. My thumb decides it's tired, the work is much more time consuming and we become busier than originally thought and the garden slowing turns to an expensive and very nice dirt box.
This year, I am onto my thumb. It's been telling me how wonderful it can be to have a garden, how it won't be to hard to maintain, how much extra time I will have to devote to it, and how the boys are old enough this year to really get involved. I combat its enthuasiasm with cynisism. Remember those animals that have no fear of our deck, the raccoon, the skunk, and the armadillo?They would love nothing more than for us to make a buffet in our yard. Not to mention, the deer, snakes, and other things we don't always see.
We compromised this year. We have begun a tomato plant and have a strawberry plant waiting for the last frost. Maybe next year that pesky thumb will get it's way. Maybe....
Meaning, Not Reasons
4 weeks ago